The Best Friends You'll Ever Have
by LuxKen27
Summary: A collection of oneshots written for prompts from the babysitters100 LJ comm. #14: Richard had a lot to learn about being a father, but he already knew one thing for certain: his daughter was beautiful, because she looked just like his beautiful wife.
1. Teenage Dreamers

Title: Teenage Dreamers

Author: LuxKen27

Prompt: #014 – Sunny Winslow

Universe: ten years post canon (_California Diaries_)

Genre: Angst

Rating: T

Warning: Language, innuendo

Word Count: 1,898

Summary: Ducky is forever saving his friends...

_Author's Note:_ Inspired by the Rescues' stripped down cover of "Teenage Dream." Further notes can be found at my LiveJournal, which is linked in my profile.

_Disclaimer: _The _Baby-sitters Club_ concept, storyline, and characters are © 1986 – 2000 Ann M. Martin/Scholastic Corporation. No money is being made from the creation of this material. No copyright infringement is intended.

.xxxxx.

I don't know why I was so surprised when I got The Call.

Just like every other time, it'd come in the dead of night, unexpectedly – and yet, not.

I was the only one of her friends who still spoke to her. Of course I'd be listed as her 'next of kin,' even though her father was – so far as I knew, at least – alive and well and living in Oregon.

I was in Vegas now. Apparently, so was she.

The voice on the other end of the line was thin and reedy and all business, asking if I was Mr. McCrae and did I know a Sunny Winslow? She was at North Vista, in the ER, and she was asking for me.

I didn't want to go. I never wanted to go, but I did.

She needed me. Still.

I hurried out of bed, wrapping myself in yesterday's clothes before hitting the streets, my poor, defeated car squealing in protest as I pulled out of the parking lot of my apartment complex. I wasn't totally sure where North Vista was, so I drove around for what seemed like hours, trying to find it, cursing myself for not getting directions from the none-too-friendly-but-still-useful nurse who'd called me in the first place.

Finally, I found it, just as it started to rain – of course it'd rain in the middle of the night, in the desert, when nobody was able to enjoy it. For a moment, all I could do was sit in the car, staring at the glowing red lights of the hospital's emergency entrance sign, so many memories flooding my mind:

– the first time I'd met her.

– rescuing her at the beach.

– long trips, back and forth, visiting her mother as she slowly wasted away.

– the first time she'd called me after she'd moved, scared and manic and out of her mind with grief and anger and fear, stranded on the side of some road in Oregon because the jerk she'd hitched a ride with dumped her there when she wouldn't have sex with him.

I'd rescued her then, just like before.

She'd needed me, and I'd needed that.

Now? Now…

I stepped out of the car, pulling my jacket over my head because like an idiot, I'd left the umbrella at home. It didn't matter: I was soaked by the time I got inside, and my shoes squeaked all the way down the hall, the interminable length it took to walk from the nurses' station to the acute unit. Another memory tickled me, the first time I'd accompanied her to the hospital to visit her mother, her holding my arm in a death grip, muttering about how much she hated hospitals with their white walls, buzzing fluorescent lights, and sickly sweet antiseptic scent of sterilization.

I wonder if she knew then just how much time she'd be spending in hospitals, if she'd have those same feelings – or if these things would become some sort of strange comfort, some anchor in the wild and raging sea of illness she now fought against.

"You can only have a few minutes," the nurse at my side warned me. "She's been sedated."

I nodded, not speaking, concentrating all my focus on pushing aside the curtain that separated her from all the rest. It was all I could do to just hang onto that thin strip of fabric, to calm my racing heart and the anxiety that gnawed up from my gut. She'd been okay, the last time I'd seen her – better than okay, laughing and happy and relaxed and focused…it was hard to see her like this again.

She was in the far bed, next to the window. I moved forward slowly, cautiously, not wanting to startle her. She was lying on her back, but her head was angled to the right, watching the rain as it beat steadily against the window pane. I'd almost made it to her side when the rubber sole of my sneaker slipped against the tile.

She smiled as she turned, spotting me. "I knew you'd come," she said. Well, croaked, really – whatever they had her on was strong stuff. She could barely keep her eyes open.

"Your knight in shining armor," I replied lamely, sliding close to the bed. I'm a coward and a sucker even now, ten years removed from the drama that brought us together in the first place.

She reached for my hand and squeezed it, but her grip was weak. "You always rescue me from my fuckups," she continued, her mouth curving up into a lazy, silly smile. "You're a good friend, Ducky."

I cringed at the old nickname, but tried not to let it show. She was the only person in the world still allowed to call me that.

She glanced away, tugging my hand closer, wrapping both hers around it now. "Do you remember the last time we were together?" she suddenly asked, her eyes dreamy and far away. "Driving out to the California beach?"

I nodded, then realized she couldn't see me. "Yeah," I choked out, easing myself down on the edge of her hospital bed. The staff really hated it when we visitors did that, but what choice did I have? I'd slip and fall and break my neck, and then we'd both be stuck here in the North Vista emergency room. "It was fun."

"Wasn't it?" she sighed, stroking my arm absently.

I swallowed hard. It had been a weird time, actually – she'd called me up, out of the blue, and demanded we road trip it to the coast. I'd been in Vegas for a couple of months already, just enrolled in the UNLV theater program, but I went anyway. I'd never been able to resist her commands, and I think she always knew that...besides which, she sounded fine – better than fine, like she was the Old Sunny, full of life and rebellion and sunshine. It'd been months since her last hospitalization, so why not?

We drove to Cali and got drunk on the beach, laughing uproariously at the ocean and the gulls and the memories stirred, of afternoons rollerblading on the boardwalk and flirting in the bookstores. It was a pleasant sort of buzz, and she had been so relaxed and introspective and it was like the old days, when we could just sit and talk and be with each other, honest and open and frank.

I'd missed that Sunny. I _needed_ that Sunny, to remind me that life was still worth living, even with all the bullshit it slung our way.

As if she could read my thoughts (see my memories?), she spoke again. "And then when we got back to the room!" she laughed. "Whose idea had it been, to build that fort out of the sheets?"

"Yours," I supplied. She was the spontaneous and creative one, not me. I've always been ol' reliable, staid and stoic Ducky McCrae, with a shoulder to cry on and a joke at the ready.

Her hands closed around mine. "And then…"

My eyes drifted to my lap. "Yeah," I said quietly. Then we did things we shouldn't have, but which felt right anyway. She also always had _that_ effect on me, making it seem perfectly reasonable to do things I'd later regret.

She shifted in the bed, pushing herself up, pulling me closer, even as I tried to shake the memories away. "You want to know a secret?" she whispered conspiratorially.

I leaned closer, looking into her sparkling, wild eyes. "What?"

She grinned. "I'm not really sick," she replied in a gleeful whisper.

My stomach flip-flopped. How many times had I heard _that_ before? "Then why are you here?" I asked, trying desperately to keep my tone light.

She sighed, a deep, wistful sigh, her expression breaking into one of deep weariness. "I needed a break," she admitted. "Life's been crazy these last few weeks."

These last few _weeks_? Uh-oh. How long had she been here? Being manic in Las Vegas was no picnic.

_Well, obviously_, I reminded myself, _if she's in the fucking hospital for it._

"Have you been taking your meds?" I ventured carefully, unsure of how she'd respond. Sometimes she'd throw her head back and laugh, wondering why in the world she'd ever need medication in the first place; sometimes she'd cry and slap me and admonish me for ever doubting her ability to take care of herself.

This time, though, her eyes filled with tears and she glanced away swiftly, wrapping her hands around my arm. "I love you, Ducky McCrae," she declared in a shaky voice, shocking the shit out of me. "I love you because you don't judge me."

I swallowed hard. Who the hell was I to be worth loving for that? I judged fucking _everybody_, including myself.

And just like that, she could make me feel instantly guilty for not wanting to come here, or see her like this. For dreading every phone call I'd ever received in the middle of the night, asking me to come rescue her. For always feeling reluctant to be the one to sign her out of the psych ward, even when she was calm and lucid and happy and stable.

She sniffled, turning on her side away from me and curling into a ball as best she could, around all the tubes and needles and machines she was attached to. "I hate it when I get like this," she murmured. "I always think I have it under control, but the second I start to enjoy it – the high, the rush, the freedom, the risk – it slips away from me. And I end up like this."

I wrapped my arms around her, resting my head on her shoulder. "I know," I heard myself say, my voice somehow soothing although I felt anything but calm inside. "It's going to be okay."

"It's never been this bad before," she whispered. "I've never wanted to die. Not since my mother…"

I tightened my grip around her, and it was becoming easier to remember how and why and when we'd slept together. "You did the right thing," I assured her, loathing myself for even _going there_, trying to focus on the here and now instead. "You got help before it was too late."

"I don't know how you put up with me," she admitted, furrowing into the embrace.

"Easy," I replied, tilting my head against hers. "You're my friend."

It's the truth, after all. Not for just anybody would I be lying half-on, half-off a tiny hospital bed, in the emergency room, soaking wet, at 3 am, hugging like it's the end of the world because for her, it was.

It always was.

This was the seventh time we'd done this. Six times prior, I thought it would eventually get better – her moods would even out; the ideation would lessen, or even go away.

Now _I_ knew better.

She'd never start taking meds, she'd never stop hurting herself, she'd never stop _needing me_ to drive into the desert in the middle of the night, into the chaos of an unknown future.

This is who she was. This is what she'd become, succumbing to a force even more powerful than herself…

…just like Alex.

Would I ever see the real Sunshine Daydream Winslow again?

…

Why else do I rush to her side every time she summons me?


	2. So Close

Title: So Close

Author: LuxKen27

Prompt: #083 – Wedding

Universe: early canon (#6 – _Kristy's Big Day_)

Genre: Romance

Rating: T

Warning: None

Pairing: Sam Thomas/Stacey McGill

Word Count: 1,180

Summary: It was his mother's wedding. She was his sister's friend. It was perfectly appropriate…wasn't it?

_Disclaimer:_The _Baby-sitters Club_ concept, storyline, and characters are © 1986 – 2000 Ann M. Martin/Scholastic Corporation. No money is being made from the creation of this material. No copyright infringement is intended.

.xxxxx.

_Oh, thank God_, Sam thought, sidling up to the buffet table and popping an olive in his mouth. _I thought I'd never get away!_

He shot a quick glance back in the direction of his escape, relief washing through him when he realized he hadn't been followed. He loved his family, but like his siblings, he was anything less than pleased at having to make conversation with Uncle Neal and Aunt Theo. He'd successfully avoided the majority of his extended family during the chaos that was wedding planning week, and just when he thought he might pull it off entirely, Aunt Theo cornered him, showering him with the dreaded opener: "My, how you've grown! What grade are you in now?"

He continued to munch on olives, allowing his annoyance to wash away as he glanced around the spacious but crowded yard. It was a special day, after all, yammering aunts notwithstanding. He'd just witnessed his mother getting remarried, something he never thought he'd see, considering how well her last marriage worked out. But Watson was an okay guy, and he genuinely seemed to want the Thomas kids around. The weather was beautiful, the food was flowing freely, and the rest of the wedding party looked radiant. What more could a guy ask for?

A tiny-half smile pulled at the corner of his mouth as his gaze settled on a blonde figure in the distance.

_Stacey,_ he mused. _Stacey McGill. How _you_ doin'?_

She looked stunning, of course. She was wearing a pale blue sleeveless dress, her hair flowing freely over her shoulders, pinned back on the sides with silver clips. Though, Sam considered, she _always_ looked stunning, even in regular clothes – tall and thin, with curly blonde hair and a real sense of style. It was hard to believe she and Kristy were the same age – they certainly didn't look it.

Not that it made him feel any _less_ weird, staring at a thirteen-year-old friend of his sister's.

Her being stunning certainly helped, though.

"Do I even want to know what you're thinking?" a voice intoned from the vicinity of his left.

Sam turned, surprised to see his brother Charlie standing beside him, an amused expression settling over his features. A faint flush coated the back of Sam's neck, but he didn't reply, instead continuing to shove olives in his mouth as he turned his attention back across the yard.

"Why don't you ask her to dance?" Charlie queried pleasantly.

Sam frowned. "She looks busy," he murmured between bites. She was standing with her group of friends, laughing and chatting and taking pictures. In fact, her camera had been permanently attached to her face for most of the day – maybe Kristy had put her in charge of recording the event for posterity?

The idea amused him, but was not enough to shake his growing tide of wary uncertainty.

"A word of advice," Charlie mused aloud, draping an arm around his brother's shoulders. "Girls who look like that will _always_ be busy." He paused, taking in Sam's pained expression, before speaking again. "Take a swing or take a seat. In the meanwhile, how about leaving some olives for the rest of us?"

Sam shot him a feint unimpressed look. "Thanks," he mumbled, brushing his hands off and moving away from the table. It wasn't that he wasn't interested, it was just…

She was thirteen. A middle-schooler. An _eighth-grader_.

Never mind the fact that he studied her every chance he had. Never mind the fact that he'd jumped at the chance to deliver groceries to his neighbors that week, just to catch a glimpse of her while she was helping Kristy and the others with their impromptu playgroup. Never mind the fact that he'd actually _hurried home_ from his job early every day, instead of hanging out with his friends like he usually did, on the off-chance that he'd run into her as she was biking home in the afternoon.

Never mind the fact that while he was standing there like a lump on a log, his cousin Luke had approached her, tapped her on the shoulder, and asked her to dance.

_Get a grip, Thomas_, he admonished himself. _You're letting a ten-year-old show you up._ With a determined nod of his head, he looked around, his eyes lighting up as he spotted another of Kristy's friends close by.

"Hey, Claud!" he called jovially, waving to get her attention. "Wanna dance?"

He pulled a smiling Claudia onto the dance floor and twirled her around, feeling himself relax incrementally as he laughed and joked with her. When the song ended, he fell into an exaggerated bow before her, thanking her profusely before turning to his sister's best friend – and another girl he'd known since she was a baby – and sweeping her off the sidelines. Mary Anne blushed all the way to the roots of her hair the entire time they danced, but he managed to coax a smile out of her before letting her go.

He turned just then, noticing Stacey standing on the edge of the crowd, alone, the corners of her mouth turned down in a slightly confused frown. Almost as soon as her expression registered in his mind, however, it vanished, replaced with a bright smile as she waved to someone standing behind him. She moved forward, ostensibly to meet this mystery guest, but he when he saw his chance, he took it, catching her arm as she brushed past him.

"Stacey," he said softly, surprised when his nervousness from before came rushing back all at once, "would you like to dance?"

She hesitated, her big blue eyes searching his for a long moment. "Okay," she finally replied.

He smiled, letting her arm go, wondering faintly why a rosy pink blush was suddenly spreading across her cheeks. Just then, his mind registered that the music had changed, from upbeat and funky to something a little slower and more romantic. For a moment, they stood awkwardly, as other couples – including his mother and Watson – swayed around them.

Sam reached for Stacey's hand. "Come on," he murmured, "I love this song." He didn't, in reality – Watson was a pretty cool guy, but he had weird, old-fashioned taste – but the reassurance was enough for her. Tentatively, she rested her hands on his shoulders as his arms encircled her waist, and they began to sway along with everyone else.

He wracked his mind for something to say, something witty that would disarm her, like Claudia or Mary Anne. He drew a blank, however, every potential comment lodging in his throat as their gazes met once more. She was already smiling, rather dreamily, her eyes sparkling and eager, and he relaxed, drawing her a bit closer.

So what if she was thirteen? So what if anybody else was watching them? She was absolutely beautiful, she was dancing in his arms, and she was looking at him like he was a dream come true.

At that moment, she was the only thing that mattered in his world, and that's when Sam realized –

– he was in love.


	3. The Pact

Title: The Pact

Author: LuxKen27

Prompt: #096 – Siblings (Author's Choice)

Universe: Early canon

Genre: Angst/Family

Rating: T

Warning: None

Word Count: 2,056

Summary: Charlie Thomas would never forget the night his father abandoned his family.

_Author's Note:_ Written for desert_vixen, for the 2010 fandom_stocking holiday exchange.

_Disclaimer:_The _Baby-sitters Club_ concept, storyline, and characters are © 1986 – 2000 Ann M. Martin/Scholastic Corporation. No money is being made from the creation of this material. No copyright infringement is intended.

.xxxxx.

Charlie Thomas would never forget the night his father abandoned his family.

He had been ten years old. The night was warm and sticky, the air outside interminably still, devoid of any comforting breeze. It was midnight, or thereabouts; he and his siblings were supposed to be tucked safe in their beds, well on their way to deep and restful sleep...and that might have happened, if it hadn't been so hot and sticky, if the air conditioner hadn't picked that very night to go on the fritz, if their ceiling fans made any sort of noise other than the quiet, whispery wisps of air funneling efficiently through the room.

But no. There was nothing to distract him into sleep, no matter how he twisted or turned and closed his pillow around his ears. His parents were arguing again – something that had been happening with frightening regularity in those days. Every ugly word that passed between them rang through the paper-thin walls that separated their bedrooms. It didn't matter what they were fighting over; it was always loud and aggressive and scary, full of threats and admonishments and tears.

He'd been surprised then, when it suddenly stopped with the slam of a door. The house was eerily quiet for a long moment, only to be shattered by the muffled slam of another door. Charlie lay as still as he possibly could, clutching his sheets to his chest, his heart beginning to pump furiously against his ribs. He flinched when he heard the roar of the engine in his father's car, the gears straining as it was thrown in reverse, backed out of the driveway, switched into first, and zoomed down the length of Bradford Court.

And then – silence.

Charlie's thoughts were muddled and hazy, his annoyance and frustration over his parents' constant bickering growing into a sense of real fear and panic. They'd argued, yes, long and aggressive and tearful and scary, but they'd never hit each other, and neither of them had ever stormed out of the house. Was his father coming back, or was he gone for good? What had finally pushed him over the edge?

What about poor David Michael, who'd been wailing from his crib during the entire exchange? Could he really walk out on his newborn child like that, even for just a few minutes?

The faint sound of sniffling had brought him back to the present. Charlie sucked in a breath, trying to determine if it was his mother, but no…it was coming from _inside_ his room. "Sam?" he whispered softly, relaxing his grip on his sheets.

The sniffling intensified.

Charlie pushed his sheets away, swinging his feet over the side of his bed. He'd shared a room with his younger brother in those days, the two of them alternating between bunks – he'd been on top that evening. "Sam, is that you?"

"Uh-huh," came the very quiet reply.

Carefully, Charlie climbed down the ladder on the side of the beds, his eyes closing momentarily as he found himself in the funnel of circulating air directly underneath the ceiling fan. He hopped down the last step, sinking into the mattress of the other bed near his brother's feet. "You okay?" he asked quietly, narrowing his eyes as he tried to make out his brother's form in the trails of moonlight drifting in from the far window.

"Daddy left," Sam replied, his breath hitching on the back of a sob.

Charlie bit his lip. "Yeah," he sighed, reaching for his brother's hand and squeezing it.

Sam sat up then, bringing his knees to his chest. "I'm scared," he admitted, wiping his cheeks with his free hand. "What if he doesn't come back?"

Charlie scooted a bit closer, wrapping his arm around his brother's shoulders and pulling him close. He didn't know what to say – he was scared, too – but he knew he had to stay calm, and be strong, for Sam's sake. Sam had always been really sensitive to their parents' struggles, trying to be the little crowd-pleaser, to keep them smiling and happy as much as he could. Peacekeeping duties were a lot for an eight-year-old to carry, even self-imposed, and Charlie hated to hear his brother cry.

He never cried until it was hopeless.

Their door had creaked open just then, and Charlie looked up swiftly, a little afraid it was their mother. Instead, he saw the scrawny little form of their younger sister, Kristy, long brown hair tumbling over her shoulders as she dragged a blue blanket behind her.

"Charlie?" she called softly. "Sam?"

Sam tightened the brace of his arms around his legs, burying his face in his knees. Charlie knew he didn't want Kristy to realize he was crying, lest it upset her even more. With one final squeeze, he let go of Sam's shoulders, standing up and crossing the room to where Kristy stood in his door.

"Come on," he directly softly, pulling her inside and closing the door as silently as he could. He led her back to the bottom bed of the bunk, sitting next to Sam again and pulling Kristy down on his other side. Kristy complied, pulling her blanket up and draping it over the three of them before leaning against Charlie.

"Daddy left, didn't he?" she asked bluntly, curling a large portion of the blanket around herself.

Charlie slid one arm around her shoulders, and the other around Sam's, who was still crying, albeit silently. "Yeah," he confirmed.

In the faint light from the moon, he saw her scrunch up her face, and wondered for a wild moment if _she_ was going to cry as well. "What are we going to do?" she inquired instead, her tone somewhere between weariness and frustration.

Charlie tightened the brace of his arms around his siblings. "We're going to stick together," he said firmly. "No matter what happens."

"Do you think he'll come back?" Kristy asked in a very small voice.

"He _has_ to," Sam insisted, looking up for the first time since their sister had entered the room. "He's our daddy – he _has to_ come back!" His eyes flickered up to Charlie's face. "Doesn't he?"

Charlie shrugged. A couple of kids in his class had divorced parents, or only lived with their mothers. He didn't want that to happen to his own family, but at the same time, he hated the fact that their parents fought day in and day out. _Maybe it would be better if he didn't_, he reasoned muddily, before immediately feeling guilty for even considering such a thing.

"Doesn't he?" Sam repeated, his eyes a little wild with desperation.

"I don't know," Charlie finally said. "Look, it's late – we ought to get some sleep. And who knows? Maybe when we wake up in the morning, he'll be back, and this will all be just a bad dream."

Sam flopped down in the bed, pulling his sheets up around him. "Okay," he replied happily, dutifully closing his eyes.

Kristy tugged on Charlie's arm. "Can I sleep in your room tonight?" she asked.

He smiled as he ruffled her hair. "Of course," he told her. "You can even have the top bunk."

She gave him a grateful look, standing up to climb the ladder to the mattress overhead. Charlie stood as well, pulling his own blanket down and curling up with it on the floor. He sighed a long, deep sigh and hoped to God that his father wouldn't prove them all wrong come daylight.

.xxxxx.

Charlie Thomas never forgave his father for abandoning his family that hot, sticky, summery night.

Even now, seven years later, every time he thought of him, he burned with anger and resentment. One explosive fight, one threat followed through, and he was out of their lives for good, never to be seen or heard from again.

His childhood had effectively ended at ten. He'd had to grow up quick, taking responsibility for himself and his younger siblings, helping his mother out with chores and bills and childcare. He couldn't remember the last time he'd just been able to spontaneously go out with his friends without worrying about the laundry list of responsibilities he had to cover at home.

Not that his father's abandonment hadn't had its advantages. Like, allowing his mother to meet a really wonderful man like Watson Brewer. A man who was mature enough to handle his responsibilities at his job _and_ at his home.

A man who welcomed four stepchildren rather abruptly into his life.

Charlie stood in the doorway of his new room. It was absolutely enormous, twice the size of the one he'd shared with Sam in their house on Bradford Court, and it was all his, to do with as he wished. He'd done his best, but it looked sparsely furnished, with only half his belongings scattered about. It had been surprisingly hard to separate his stuff from his brother's during the move, and it was equally difficult to get used to the idea that they wouldn't be living like sardines anymore. Sam's room was down the hall, and Kristy's was practically in another wing.

He didn't think he'd have such freedom until college.

A knock sounded on the door. Charlie looked back, his expression melting into a smile as he spotted his brother in the hall. Sam poked his head in, surveying the room with a critical eye.

"Looks good," he declared, leaning against the door.

"Thanks," Charlie replied, taking another look around.

After a long moment, Sam spoke again. "Feels weird, doesn't it?" he mused.

Charlie nodded. "We shared a room for twelve years," he reminded him. "Didn't think I'd ever get rid of you."

Sam snorted. "Ditto," he replied. "Maybe now I can _finally_ have a social life."

Charlie shot him a wry look. "I was never the one who stood in your way on that particular path."

Sam's smile began to fade as his eyes drifted out over the middle distance. "Did you ever think this day would come?" he asked quietly.

Charlie knew he was talking about more than just their now separate rooms. "No," he admitted, "but I guess I'm glad it did." He shrugged. "I want Mom to be happy, and Watson definitely makes her happy."

"Definitely," Sam echoed.

They were silent for a moment; so silent, in fact, that Charlie was surprised when he turned around and realized Sam was still loitering in his doorway, his face the color of a dark, dusky rose.

Charlie lifted a brow. "You okay?" he queried.

"This is going to sound dumb," Sam said in a rush, his cheeks darkening, "but would you mind if I – spent the night in here with you? For old times' sake?"

Charlie couldn't help but laugh. "Well, I suppose I _could_ spare the space," he mused wryly, punching his brother playfully in the shoulder. "Sure. Come on. It'll be a riot."

Sam's expression melted with relief. "Cool," he replied, rushing off down the hall to fetch his blanket and pillow. He had just arranged his stuff on the floor while Charlie lounged on his bed, flipping through the channels of the TV, when another knock sounded at the door. The brothers paused, exchanging a glance.

"Come in," Charlie called, lowering the remote.

Kristy pushed open his door, looking sheepish. "Sounds like a party," she noted. "Mind if I join you?" She walked in before either could protest, a pillow under one arm and a blue blanket trailing behind her, and put her stuff on the floor near Sam's.

Charlie slid off his bed, settling himself between them, draping one arm around his brother's shoulders and the other around his sister's. "It's only fitting, I suppose," he remarked, "considering this is our first _real _night in this house."

Kristy leaned against him. "We have to stick together," she reminded them, "no matter what happens."

"I'm glad we made that pact," Sam said simply, drawing his knees to his chest. "I don't know what I'd do without you guys."

"Me, neither," Kristy agreed.

"Me, neither," Charlie echoed.

They shared a secret, sad smile.

Charlie tightened the brace of his arms around them. It hadn't always been fun, or easy, and they hadn't always gotten along, but he wouldn't trade his siblings for anything in the world.

Not even a relationship with his father.


	4. Explanations and Complications

Title: Explanations and Complications

Author: LuxKen27

Prompt: #094 – Tension

Universe: Pre-canon (_The Summer Before_)

Genre: Drama

Rating: T

Warning: None

Word Count: 1,611

Summary: Janine confronts Frankie, and finds out the _real_ reason why he avoided her all summer.

_Author's Note:_ For those of you who may not be familiar with the prequel, Frankie Evans was one of Janine's classmates from summer school, whom she invited as her guest to Claudia's twelfth birthday party.

I'm working on a much longer Charlie/Janine story unrelated to this one, and this constitutes a bit of my prequel head canon, if you will.

Lastly, I'd like to dedicate this to snarky_imp, who needs a little fluff right now =) I hope you enjoy.

_Disclaimer:_The _Baby-sitters Club_ concept, storyline, and characters are © 1986 – 2000/2010 Ann M. Martin/Scholastic Corporation. No money is being made from the creation of this material. No copyright infringement is intended.

.xxxxx.

"Hey, Janine!"

Janine's stomach flopped at the greeting. She closed her eyes momentarily as she tightened the brace of her arms around the books she held. All around her, the other students at the community college streamed out into the bright sunlight of the summer afternoon, but the speaker who had captured her attention wasn't among them. She could feel him still standing behind her, his eyes boring holes into her back.

She straightened her spine, turning on her heel and lifting her eyes to his. "Hello," she returned crisply, gripping her books with white-knuckle force.

Frankie Evans stared back at her, an easy smile playing on his lips as he fiddled with the strap of his backpack. He looked absolutely gorgeous, tall and thin and tanned, with a mop of black curls and a face that could've been sculpted from stone, but, mercifully, his beauty had little effect on her. The first time she'd laid eyes on him in class, she'd proceeded to stare at him for the length of the lecture, trying to discern why her heart was beating so hard, why her stomach suddenly felt weak, and why her tongue had turned to cardboard.

Over the course of the summer, however, her regard for him had soured, and she had no desire to even _look _at him now, much less carry on a conversation.

"So," he started, his tone pleasant enough, "that final was a killer, eh?"

Janine stared at him wordlessly.

Frankie's smile faltered slightly. "Do you have any big plans for the rest of the summer?"

She didn't, but she didn't see how that was any of his business.

He pulled the loose strap of his backpack over his free shoulder, so that he was now wearing it properly. "Are you planning to take any AP classes next semester? I've heard AP chem is crazy hard."

She shrugged, readjusting her grip on the stack of books she held tight to her chest, the hard creases of her thick black binder cutting into the skin at her elbows.

It brought her some small hint of satisfaction when Frankie finally dropped his gaze, a flush rising to coat his cheeks. "How's Claudia?" he murmured, obviously feeling the full effects of Janine's angry silence.

Finally, she deigned speak. "You would know better than I," she replied, fighting hard to keep her emotions in check. She couldn't decide who she was more upset with – Frankie, for being such a jackass and going after her sister practically the second he'd laid eyes on her; Claudia, for being, well, _Claudia_; or herself, for feeling as petty and jealous as she did over the whole situation.

Claudia might've only been twelve, but already, she dressed and acted in ways that automatically drew the attention of boys. Was it her fault she'd attracted the _one_ boy Janine had been interested in that summer? The first boy she'd ever felt fluttery, mixed-up feelings for, and yet still had the courage to talk to, and even ask out?

It had been hard for Janine to be around her sister, because it felt like Claudia had stolen Frankie from her, even though she knew – objectively – that wasn't so.

After all, he had never been hers to begin with.

Janine's features softened as she took in Frankie's pained expression. Maybe he was trying to make amends, now that their class was over. She supposed she could at least meet him halfway, especially if he was going to continue hanging around her house and visiting her sister all summer.

Just as she opened her mouth to speak, he cleared his throat, surging forward to push past her and out the door. She frowned, putting out her arm as he tried to pass, her hand capturing his shoulder. "Can you at least tell me one thing?" she asked abruptly.

His eyes flickered to hers, his cheeks still ruddy with awkward discomfort.

"Why Claudia?"

The words hung in the air between them as she searched his features, looking for any clue that he felt guilty or remorseful or even sad for throwing away their friendship in order to pursue her sister. His eyes narrowed after a moment, an indignant sneer curling his lips as he jerked out of her grip.

"Because I didn't want to get pounded, okay?" he burst out.

Janine stopped short, surprise and a little wariness washing through her at this unexpected answer. "What?" she choked out, furrowing her brow.

Frankie bristled. "Charlie Thomas," he spat out. "One day after class, Charlie saw me talking to you. I don't know – I guess it was the day we walked home through the park? Anyway, he found me the next day and told me that if I ever did anything to hurt you, he'd pound me." He shuddered, his expression twisting with a strange combination of disapproval and fear. "Have you seen that guy lately? He's _huge_! He could pound me into the ground and not even feel it!"

Total shock reeled through Janine at this hasty revelation. "Wait a minute," she broke in, turning a skeptical eye at him. "That doesn't make any sense. Why would he say that about me, but not about Claudia? She's my sister, after all – my _younger_ sister," she added with pointed emphasis.

Frankie shrugged. "I don't know," he replied carelessly. "Maybe he likes you? Listen, Janine, you're a really nice girl and all…"

_But I'm no Claudia_, she finished silently for him. Her lips settled into a thin line. She didn't believe his speculation that Charlie Thomas was secretly harboring feelings for her; it was hard enough to buy his story about Charlie allegedly threatening him, although Frankie certainly seemed truly intimidated. He'd steered clear of her, as promised, but at what cost?

"I'm sorry, Janine," Frankie finally said, his tone soft and apologetic. "Let's not fight, okay? I'll see you around."

She averted her eyes, giving him a wide berth as he moved past her, escaping out the door and walking at a hurried clip across the now-deserted campus.

Her pace was slow as she descended the steps of the building, still trying to work through the twists of the conversation. She wasn't sure how much stock she could put into Frankie's words, but on the other hand, what reason would he have to lie to her? He'd avoided her since the day of Claudia's birthday party. She'd been hurt and humiliated by his actions at the time, so she hadn't thought much of it – she'd only been grateful that he apparently felt as weird about the whole situation as she did.

Not that it stopped him from constantly hanging around her sister, or dropping by the house at all hours of the day, or inviting Claudia downtown, or to the beach, or to visit with his family. Janine felt justified in resenting him for that…even if she felt a little foolish for directing some of that ire to her sister. Claudia was simply being Claudia, and Claudia in love was only slightly more irritating than Claudia as her normal, albeit weird, self.

Still. It hurt her to acknowledge that her sister already had more success with boys at twelve than she'd had at fifteen, and that Claudia would probably have all those wonderful firsts of teenage relationships – first boyfriend, first kiss, first slow dance and car date and Valentine's present – before Janine herself could experience them.

The sharp crack of a bat abruptly pulled Janine from her morose thoughts. She glanced up with a start, surprised to find herself dawdling near the playing fields behind SHS. This was the long way home from the community college; she supposed she'd needed more time to herself than she wanted to admit, to process all of these feelings.

She shifted her attention to the ragtag group of guys on the baseball diamond, raucous and rowdy as they played a pickup game. She vaguely recognized a few of them, all athletes from the various school teams…but her heart skipped a beat when her eyes landed on Charlie Thomas, who was stepping up to home plate.

She'd known Charlie her entire life; they'd lived across Bradford Court from each other for as long as she could remember. He'd always been friendly and nice, but he was loud and outgoing like the rest of his siblings, and could be a little bit overwhelming to be around, especially if Sam or Kristy also happened to be tagging along. She watched him now, laughing and joking with his buddies as he took a few practice swings with the bat, and tried to reconcile this image of a carefree, easygoing, generally friendly guy with that of someone who would threaten violence on others, even (perhaps) in jest.

_No_, she considered silently, tilting her head as she studied him, _he's too nice for that. Frankie probably just knew he lived across the street…_

Her thoughts trailed into oblivion when she realized Charlie was looking at her, his gaze meeting hers as he stood behind the plate, his bat resting against his shoulder. Her breath constricted in her chest as his eyes lingered on her for a long moment, the corners of his mouth curving into a slow smile as he waved to her with his free hand.

She waved back, stumbling back a step or two under the wave of sheer surprise that washed through her at the unexpected acknowledgement. She clutched her books to her chest as she watched him turn and step up to the plate, calling out to his friend on the pitcher's mound – and wondered, for a brief moment, if maybe – just _maybe_ – Frankie had been right.


	5. Rekindled

Title: Rekindled

Author: LuxKen27

Prompt: #061 – Diabetes

Universe: Post-canon

Genre: Angst/Friendship

Rating: T

Warning: A bit of innuendo

Word Count: 3,182

Summary: In the midst of the worst health crisis of her life, Stacey learns a painful lesson in true friendship.

_Disclaimer:_The _Baby-sitters Club_ concept, storyline, and characters are © 1986 – 2000 Ann M. Martin/Scholastic Corporation. No money is being made from the creation of this material. No copyright infringement is intended.

.xxxxx.

"There she is."

"No, that's not her."

"It says 'Stacey McGill' by her door, you dweeb."

"Oh, my Lord, you guys are _totally_ useless."

I stirred in my bed, glancing over my shoulder at the door to my room. _You'd think they'd know who I am by now_, I thought, annoyed. _I've only been here for a month._

I absolutely hate hospitals, and one of the worst things about them is how impersonal they are. Doctors, nurses, orderlies, aides – there's a constant stream of people walking in and out the door, at all hours of the day and night, no less, but none of them can be bothered to learn your name.

Still, there usually wasn't a group of them all at once – and, if there was, they weren't fighting over my identity. I listened to the muffled whispers for a moment longer, curiosity claiming me as the door eased open. I turned gingerly in my bed, reaching for the bedside lamp.

"Stacey?" called an uncertain voice. "Are you in here?"

A moment later, my best friend's head appeared around the corner.

"Claudia!" I cried, surprise and happiness flooding through me. "What are you doing here?"

Claud's expression melted into a grin. "Oh, Stacey!" she replied, throwing her arms out as she approached my bed. "It's so good to see you!"

I sat up against the pillows, eager for a bit of instrument-less human contact. She leaned over my bed, hugging me as best she could around all of the machines that were hooked up to me. It felt so nice to have someone's arms around me who gave a damn, for a change.

"Stacey?" came another, tentative voice.

I glanced up as Claudia let me go, another, rather more unpleasant bolt of surprise jolting through me as Mary Anne Spier walked into my line of vision. "Mary Anne?" I asked uncertainly.

Her brown eyes were wide and rapidly filling with tears as she walked to the opposite side of my bed from where Claudia stood, taking in the sight of me and all the surrounding equipment. "Oh, Stacey," she blubbered, gathering me in her arms. "What happened to you?"

Just as I opened my mouth to respond, I became aware of another presence in the room. Claudia shifted away as I glanced over, and nothing less than total astonishment coursed over me. No less than Kristy freakin' Thomas herself stood there, shifting her weight from one leg to the other, looking just as uncomfortable as I felt.

_Kristy_, I thought, unable to tear my gaze away. _Wow, talk about the last person I ever expected to see…_

Mary Anne finally let me go, and I fell back against my pillows, trying to reconcile the sight before me. It had been _years_ since the four of us had voluntarily been in the same room, and I couldn't imagine what had brought them all here now. In fact, I was a little embarrassed that they were seeing me like this. Here we were, sixteen-year-old juniors in high school, and they were crowding into a room on the children's ward. My room had walls that were too white, and was decorated with childish murals of smiling suns and happy-face flowers. Mercifully, I was dressed in my normal pajamas, and had the ability now to get up, shower, and change on a daily basis, but I knew I looked scary, lying in bed and hooked up to an arsenal of medical monitoring equipment.

I'd thought of the day when I'd talk to my ex-BSC friends again, with increasingly regularity over the last few weeks, in fact, but needless to say, it wasn't supposed to happen like this.

"Stacey," Mary Anne said quietly, breaking the tension that had risen in the room. "What happened?"

I looked over at her. High school hadn't changed her much; she was still short and tiny and delicate, appearing almost overwhelmed by the bouquet of flowers she cradled in her arms. Tears streamed unabated down her cheeks, her expression a strange mixture of fear, curiosity, and compassion. _Good old reliable Mary Anne_, I thought, my eyes falling away from her. _Why did we ever drift apart?_

I felt Claudia's hand slip supportively into mine, and I bit my lip to keep my own tears at bay. "It's my diabetes," I explained, forcing my voice into some semblance of calm. "It's gotten worse."

"We figured that much," Kristy cut in, stepping forward and looping her hands over the footboard of my hospital bed. Her voice was devoid of its usual arrogance. "We saw you collapse at school."

My cheeks burned at the memory. It was a moment straight out of my worst nightmare – I had been in the middle of the cafeteria, arguing with Rick, my boyfriend, when I stood up too fast and collapsed to the ground, immediately falling unconscious. Claudia told me later that there had been a big brouhaha as I was taken out, on a stretcher by paramedics and _everything_, and that the rumors had started almost immediately.

Just like sixth grade. Just like Parker Academy in New York.

And, just like had happened back then, none of my so-called friends had come to visit me in the hospital.

"We were just worried, when you didn't come back to school," Mary Anne added, bringing me back to the present. "You'd never been gone this long before."

I shrugged. "My diabetes has never been this out of control before," I replied tonelessly.

Claudia patted my hand. "She was in a diabetic coma when they brought her in," she told the others. "She's been on a constant IV drip ever since."

I nodded. "A couple of days ago, they implanted an insulin pump in my abdomen, and the doctors are still trying to figure out how much, of what kind, of insulin I need to take."

Kristy's eyes fell to the bottom of the bed. "That sucks," she murmured sympathetically.

"Yeah," I sighed. "It does."

Mary Anne's brow furrowed slightly. "So the daily injections – ?"

"Haven't worked for awhile," I finished, a strange sense of déjà vu curling through me. How weird to think that so much time had passed since we'd really been friends – I'd been struggling with my daily injection schedule for years. I'm a brittle diabetic, which means my diabetes is harder to control than most, and the raging hormones of puberty had wreaked havoc on my system.

Mary Anne simply nodded, even though I could tell she didn't completely understand. Her expression brightened a little when she realized she was still carrying the flowers, and she stepped forward, laying them across my lap. "These are for you," she said, trying to smile through her obvious upset. "I wasn't sure what else you'd like…"

That did it. I picked up one of the blossoms, fingering its petals as the tears crept from the corners of my eyes. "Thank you," I choked out. "I appreciate it."

They didn't know how much I appreciated their presence at that moment. Outside of my own family, I hadn't seen any familiar faces in the last few weeks. I'd missed my friends from school terribly, but any time I'd call them, they would be out, or they'd have a convenient excuse not to come. Claudia had snuck in a couple of times, after visiting hours, and had been keeping me informed of all the gossip at school.

That was how I'd learned Rick had dumped me, and the cheerleaders had filled my place on the squad.

I never let on how much those things hurt me, but they did. Ever since I started SHS, I'd been working hard on my social life. My goals were silly, in retrospect, but I really wanted a different image than the one I carried with me into Stoneybrook Middle School. I wanted to be a cheerleader. I wanted to be on the homecoming court. I wanted to be prom queen.

For all that, I'd given up a life I was comfortable with. I'd quit the Baby-sitters Club at the beginning of ninth grade, incurring Kristy's wrath for what I thought was forever. I purposefully let my BSC friends go, determined to find a way into the 'in' crowd with the popular kids. And, for a time, it had worked. At the beginning of my junior year, it seemed like all of my goals were finally in reach. I was still pulling As and Bs in my classes, too, so I'd even been inducted into the academic honor society.

Then, it seemed like life had happened all at once. My dad remarried, and his new wife had another baby. My mom got serious about her career, striking out on her own to start a junior boutique in Stoneybrook. So many changes all at once just added to the stress I was already feeling – at school, at home – and my diabetes went totally out of whack. No matter what I did, no matter how much I adjusted my injection schedule or my diet, I still lost control.

And ended up flat on my face in the cafeteria, something that hadn't happened to me in almost five years.

"So," Kristy piped up, clearing her throat, "has anyone else been by to see you? Rick, or Dori, or Corinne – ?"

I shook my head slowly, a flush of heat rising up the back of my neck. I continued to play with the flowers, fingering the outlines of each one as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world. If I bit my lip any harder, I was going to draw blood.

I could sense that the others were exchanging a look between themselves.

Kristy let out a soft chuckle. "Do you remember last time?" she asked. "Those hard plastic chairs in the hospital in New York?"

I looked up, wiping the tears from my eyes as I focused on her. "Yeah," I recalled, smiling at the memory. She, Claud, Mary Anne, and Dawn had come all the way into the city to visit me – not once, but _twice_ – when I'd gotten sick during eighth grade. They'd piled me down with cards and presents and questions from the kids at school, our baby-sitting charges, and even a couple of teachers and parents.

"And poor Charlotte Johansson," Mary Anne added. "She was so worried about you that she was half-convinced the only way she'd see you again was if she got sick enough to be in the hospital, too."

I nodded. "I remember."

Isn't it funny? Three years ago, I had the world at my feet – tons of friends who cared about me, a huge network of support from teachers and parents and the families I baby-sat for – and now? Now, I was blubbering over a bouquet of flowers a former friend had picked up from the hospital gift shop.

I hadn't talked to Mary Anne or Kristy more than in passing in nearly two years. I wouldn't blame them if they hated me for the way I abandoned them at the start of our freshman year. Sometimes, I hated myself.

And yet, here they were, the first visitors I'd had outside of my family and Claud since the start of this whole ordeal. Maybe there was something left of our friendship just yet…

"Hey, Stace?"

I glanced up at Claudia. Our friendship had endured, even as the others had waned. I still considered her my best friend, even though we mostly ran in different circles at school now. I went to her art showings, and she came to the football games to watch me cheerlead. She still dressed just as outrageously as before, and she still made me jewelry for my birthday. She'd even come with me on my last trip to the city to visit my dad, for moral support (okay, and to see the latest installation at MOMA).

Never before had I been so grateful for her.

Claudia smiled before glancing towards my door. "Maybe we should go," she said, turning back to me. "It sounds like the nurses are up for the morning."

I closed my eyes, concentrating on the noises in the hall. I knew the hospital schedule down to a science. "Is it 7:32?" I asked, looking up at my friends again.

Mary Anne looked at the clock above my head. "Yup," she confirmed.

I wrinkled my nose. "Ugh," I groaned, "almost time for vitals."

Claudia patted my hand sympathetically. "And school," she added, sounding none-too-thrilled by the prospect. "Hey, listen, we'll come back by this afternoon, okay?"

I perked up at that. "You will?"

Claud nodded, but it was Kristy who spoke up. "Yeah," she said, with a firm nod of her head. "We _all_ will." When I turned my attention to her, she gave a little half-shrug. "It's not the same without you."

I could feel tears welling up behind my eyes again. _They still care about me_, I thought. _After all we've been through, they still give a damn about me._

Mary Anne reached down to hug me again. "Get well soon, Stace," she said, squeezing me tight.

"Thanks," I whispered in response.

Claudia and Kristy also gave me hugs before saying goodbye, trying to look cheerful as they filed out of my room. They almost made it, too, before Kristy opened her big mouth.

"Hey," she said, suddenly sounding annoyed, "I thought we asked you to wait in the car!"

"You did," came another voice, one that sounded easy and amused by Kristy's impatience, "but you guys were taking so long that I got bored. Besides, you aren't the only ones who wanted to see Stacey."

I arched my brow when I heard my name. This new voice sounded familiar, but I couldn't quite place it.

There was a small scuffle outside the door that sounded like pushing or shoving. "Geez, Kristy, give it up!" the boy laughed. "This'll only take a second, okay?"

"Okay," Kristy huffed. "But hurry. We don't want to be late for school."

"Or get caught by the nurses," Claud added nervously.

"Since when you have ever cared about school?" the guy joked, his voice growing progressively louder as he walked into my room. When he turned to face me, I nearly fell off the bed.

"Hey, Stace," Sam Thomas greeted me, an easy smile playing on his lips. He strolled over to the side of my bed and sank into the mattress. "How are you feeling?"

How was I _feeling_? How about absolutely and totally embarrassed, for starters? I knew I looked terrible – bed hair, splotchy skin, puffy eyes – not to mention I was in a room in the children's wing of the hospital. That clock above my head? It was in the shape of a bright yellow sun, smiling down on me from its nest of blue-and-silver painted clouds.

And then, of course, there was the fact that I was lying there in my pajamas with nothing but a sheet and two thin blankets between me and him. The last time we'd been alone together in a room with a bed, we'd ended up naked and very much together.

Admittedly, that happened awhile ago, before the drama and ensuing sickness had taken hold. In fact, I hadn't seen him since he'd started college last fall. Even so, I couldn't stop the rush of crush-like feelings that usually overwhelmed me in his presence, especially when I was sick and tired and caught off-guard.

"I'm okay," I managed to choke out, a thrill of heat winding through my body when he rested his hand casually on my knee.

He studied me for a moment, and I flushed under the intensity of his gaze. "When Kristy mentioned that you'd been in the hospital for a month…" His voice trailed off as he averted his eyes. "I didn't know what to think."

"You asked your sister about me?" I asked, unable to help but feel a little flattered. We'd dated a bit since eighth grade, enough for him to know that my friendship with Kristy was pretty much non-existent these days.

"And Claudia," he admitted, a hint of color touching his cheeks. He squeezed my knee. "I still care, you know? I wish I had known sooner, so I could've visited."

"All the way from Hawaii?" I teased, the corners of my lips pulling up into a smile.

His gaze swiveled towards me. "Yeah," he replied, his tone completely serious. "I would've come in a heartbeat."

For a long moment, all I could do was hold his gaze, my heart beating heavily in my chest. His expression was honest and open and intense, and I recognized a lot of the emotions there – it was the same way that I felt about him. Our friendship had run a long and complicated course, each of us wishing at different points that it could've been something more, if only we could ever get the timing right.

How desperately I wished for that very same thing right now.

"But," he sighed, holding up the bag he'd been carrying, "I guess this will have to do in the meanwhile."

I sat up in the bed, reaching for the bag, trepidation filling me as I peeked inside. Sam had a weird sense of humor sometimes, and I wasn't sure I could handle a gag gift at the moment. Mercifully, it was nothing of the sort – although, I have to admit, I was a bit puzzled by it.

"A sweatshirt?" I queried, pulling out big, gray sweatshirt emblazoned with the SHS logo.

He nodded and smiled. "You're always complaining of being cold, right? I think I lost count of the number of jackets you stole from me, back in the day. So here's something to keep you warm…" He shrugged. "…and maybe remind you of being normal."

"Oh, Sam, you big doofus," I teased, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and hugging him as close as I dared. My torso ached in protest at the site of the implanted insulin pump, but I didn't care. I breathed deeply, reveling in the way his arms closed around me. "Thank you."

"Any time, Stace," he murmured, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to the base of my neck. "Any time." He held me tight for another moment, until the untimely knock on my door by the orderly wheeling in the vital signs cart.

Sam let me go, pulling away with a regretful sigh. "I should probably go," he said. "The peanut gallery doesn't want to be late for school."

I nodded, leaning back against my pillows. "I understand," I said, yawning. "Call me sometime?"

He smiled. "Sure," he agreed, standing up and quickly moving out of the way. The orderly busied himself with one of the machines, so I waved goodbye as Sam strolled out of the room.

"Having a good morning?" the orderly asked, lifting my wrist to take my pulse.

I brought the sweatshirt up to my nose and inhaled deeply, pleasantly surprised to find Sam's scent lingering there.

"The best," I answered with a smile.


	6. Reunited

Title: Reunited

Author: LuxKen27

Prompt: #076 – Sleepover

Universe: Post-canon

Genre: Angst/Romance

Rating: T

Warning: Language, sexual innuendo

Word Count: 3,044

Summary: As Stacey closes one chapter of her life, she looks forward to the future with uncertainty. Sequel to 'Rekindled.'

_Disclaimer:_The _Baby-sitters Club_ concept, storyline, and characters are © 1986 – 2000 Ann M. Martin/Scholastic Corporation. No money is being made from the creation of this material. No copyright infringement is intended.

.xxxxx.

I couldn't sleep.

No matter how much I tossed and turned, I just could not find a comfortable position. It had been a long time since I'd slept on a hard wooden floor in a sleeping bag, and apparently I was out of practice.

It was more than that, though.

I sat up quietly, blinking rapidly as my eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room. I could just make out the outlines of my friends, all softly ensconced in their sleeping bags, except for one – Kristy was fast asleep in her own bed nearby, her arms flung out on either side of the mattress. The room was silent, save for the deep, regular breathing of my slumbering friends. We'd been up half the night, gabbing and snacking and laughing – but, just as with everything else, we were out of practice. Back in junior high, we could stay up all night long, entertaining each other with stories and games and fashion experiments.

Now, we could barely make it past one am.

Not that I blamed my friends for being totally zonked. It had been a long day: first the graduation ceremony at the high school, followed by a huge party, thrown by Pete Black's parents in the field behind the country club, and then our own little impromptu gathering here at Kristy's. I could almost see the relief on everyone's faces when Kristy announced that she wanted to have a sleepover, even though we hadn't had one since the eighth grade.

I sighed, glancing up to Kristy's window. Eighth grade felt like it was ages ago. Everything was simpler then – when the Baby-sitters Club was the center of our collective universe. Before Dawn moved back to California for good. Before Mary Anne's house burned down. Before Mallory went off to Riverbend. But then…things changed. People changed. Friendships changed.

Even now, things still aren't the same. We used to joke that one day we'd have a Baby-sitters' Babies Club, but these days, we couldn't even get all of the former members of the BSC in the same room. Dawn was still in California. Mallory was still at Riverbend. Jessi and Abby and Logan and Shannon were also gone, having long drifted into their separate interests.

But somehow, this was fitting. I was spending the last night of my high school years with the first three friends I'd ever made in Stoneybrook. We'd been through a lot together, and somehow, we'd found each other at the end.

So why was I sitting here, alone in the dark?

I shrugged. Maybe getting up and moving around would ease my restlessness, I thought. I reached for a ratty old SHS sweatshirt, slipping it on before carefully untangling myself from the sleeping bag. It was the same one I'd used when I was thirteen, faded pink and less fluffy now than it had been then. With another furtive glance at my still-sleeping friends, I very quietly exited the room, closing the door behind me.

There was another reason I was glad we'd held the sleepover at Kristy's house: it's _huge_, and you can walk around it for what seems like hours and still have plenty to see and explore. The rest of the house was as silent as Kristy's room – it _was_ four am, after all, still pitch black outside – but I was on guard nonetheless, not wanting to accidently awaken one of Kristy's younger sisters. They're nice enough, but they're also loud, and Karen still hasn't outgrown her excitement about staying at "the big house," even though she's in middle school now.

I knew my way around pretty well, so even though I was pretty much walking with no destination in mind, I still found myself pushing open the heavy oak doors to the library downstairs. It was a huge, spacious room, filled to the rafters with old leather-bound books. Watson's richly colored mahogany desk stood as the centerpiece, complemented by other luxurious pieces of furniture. I settled myself on a velvet-topped chaise in front of the floor-to-ceiling window and opened the curtain a little bit.

I wanted to think, and there was no place better suited in the entire house than here.

I leaned over the arm of the chaise, resting my head against its softness as I studied the scene just beyond the window. Soft light from a full moon illuminated the grounds, but a gentle rain shower had started, tapping rhythmically against the heavy glass windowpanes, obscuring the sight of the carefully manicured gardens.

Nevertheless, I just sat and stared, trying to clear my head from the racing thoughts that cluttered my mind. I had almost lulled myself into a light sleep when I heard the door creak open ever so slightly.

Immediately I froze, my senses awakening fully once more, my hand flying to my side, where my insulin meter hummed softly. I didn't want to alert anyone to my presence, but it was already too late.

"Hey, Stace," came the soft voice from my left.

I glanced up, relief flooding through me when I caught sight of my visitor. "Hi, Sam," I returned, sitting up straight and brushing the hair out of my eyes. I couldn't help it – anytime he walked into a room, even at four am clad in little more than pajama bottoms, a little part of me was twelve years old again, sitting in the kitchen of the Thomases' old house on Bradford Court, trying desperately to look cool while drinking a glass of milk.

He pushed a hand through his dark, curly hair. "Couldn't sleep?" he asked wryly, rounding the corner of the room and approaching the chaise where I sat.

I shook my head. "No," I sighed. "You?"

He grinned as he stepped into the soft, reflected moonlight in the window. "Nah," he replied. "I'm too wired. Six time zones can really fuck with your body clock." He sat down beside me, leaning back against the opposite arm of the chaise. "Why so glum, chum? Didn't you just have the best day of your life?"

I smiled, shifting slightly so that I faced him. "I guess…" Graduation had been wonderful, but it had also been totally draining. My voice trailed off as I shook my head. "It's just what comes next that bothers me."

Sam lifted a brow. "Wait a minute, is this _Stacey McGill_ I'm talking to?" he joked. "The same Stacey I've known for nearly half my life? Because I find it hard to believe that she'd be intimidated by _anything_."

I averted by eyes, a flush rising up the back of my neck. "You'd be surprised," I muttered.

I was startled when I felt his hand over mine, glancing over to see him lean forward. "Would I?" he inquired, the light and teasing tone slipping out of his voice.

I swallowed hard as my eyes met his. There was no one under this roof who knew me better than him, and he knew it. We had been attracted to each other since the moment we'd first met, with mutual crushes turning into casual dating before growing into something much more serious and intense in high school. We'd both had other relationships in the five years we'd known each other, but we were always in each others' orbits. When Robert Brewster broke my heart in eighth grade, Sam was there for me. When Ethan Carroll dumped me in ninth, Sam was there for me. When my relationships with Rick Chow and Pete Black and Trevor Sandbourne had soured, Sam Thomas was always waiting on the other side.

I'd done the same for him. I was his last-minute date to the prom one year, when his girlfriend devastated him with a surprise break-up only a few days before. I sat through more harried phone calls and crazy drama with his family when his father suddenly turned up again, wanting a relationship with him and his siblings. He helped me deal with the chaos of my life – my diabetes, my dad remarrying, my mother's sudden and intense interest in her career. It didn't matter how messy or inconvenient or ugly it was. We'd seen each other at our absolute lowest points, and we still loved each other.

His touch was warm and secure now, his fingers curling around mine in perfect measure. I couldn't hide my feelings from him, no matter how much I wanted to. "Everyone thinks I'm strong, because of everything I've been through," I murmured. "But even I get scared sometimes."

He furrowed his brow, scooting closer to me on the chaise. "And what's scaring you now?" he asked softly.

"The future," I replied. "The uncertainty."

He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied me. "Aren't you going to college?"

"Yes," I nodded. "It's always been my dream to go to Columbia. But, that's not what I'm worried about." I paused, drawing my lower lip between my teeth as I searched for the right words. "I can handle school – it's just everything else. Moving back to New York, leaving my friends…"

"Hmm," Sam mused, squeezing my hand.

I didn't even have to look at him to know he understood. I loved New York, but it felt less like my hometown than Stoneybrook did these days. So many of my trips there since eighth grade had revolved around drama with my Dad (and later, Ethan) or hospital stays, that it was little wonder I wasn't exactly dying to go back. I barely knew any of my old friends from Parker anymore, and hadn't really spoken to Laine since the horrible fight that ended our friendship in eighth grade.

Still, the city was in my blood. I thrived when I was there, when I was able to get away and be alone and find my center. I was still sophisticated Stacey, originally from New York City, even after five years in Stoneybrook. I'd never given up hope of attending Columbia or NYU after graduation, and had continued to work hard to keep my grades up so I'd get in – even when that meant giving up a bit of my social life, which was totally _not_ _cool _when you're on the cheerleading squad and a member of the cool kids' clique.

Not that I had much of a social life anyway, not after a huge health scare my junior year landed me in the hospital yet again. My diabetes lived up to its brittle moniker, becoming totally uncontrollable on injections alone, and I had to have a continuous-use insulin pump implanted in my abdomen. I was out of school for two months, and going through that changed my life in more than one way. It was a hard lesson to learn, but at least I knew who my true friends were.

And, now that I'd found them, I didn't want to give them up.

I glanced at Sam as the silence stretched between us, and was surprised to find that he was staring at me – or, more precisely, at my chest, a little wry smile playing on the corners of his mouth. I bristled, pulling the collar of the oversized sweatshirt back up onto my shoulder over my pajamas, and the movement broke whatever reverie he was lost in.

"I was just thinking…" he mused aloud, his eyes rising to meet mine. "Do you remember when I gave you that shirt?"

I glanced down, eyeing the old, cracked lettering of the logo. "Yes," I murmured. "I was just thinking about that, actually." It had been during my ill-fated stay at the hospital, in fact. I'd been miserable and lonely until my old BSC friends surprised me with a visit. I hadn't really talked to any of them, except Claudia, since junior high, and I couldn't really put into words what it had meant to me that we could rekindle our friendship, even after years of differences and distance. And then Sam had shown up, like he always did, giving me the sweatshirt as a gift because he remembered that I was always complaining of being cold.

"Did I ever tell you that it used to be mine?" he continued, his eyes sparkling as his cheeky smile grew.

"No," I laughed, "but I figured as much. It smelled like you."

He pulled me closer, leaning down over my shoulder and breathing in deeply. "And now it smells like you," he murmured, reaching up with his free hand to brush aside my hair. "Perfect."

My heart began to race, pumping even harder when I felt the soft kiss he pressed at the base of my neck. He let go of my hand, wrapping his arms around my waist instead, trailing kisses up the column of my throat and along the line of my jaw. I closed my eyes, wrapping my arms around his neck as his mouth found mine, so warm and comforting and achingly familiar. I leaned back against the chaise, bringing him down with me, his body a welcome weight on mine.

"You know," he whispered between kisses, his hands warm as they slid against the bare skin of my back, under my pajama top, "you're always welcome to come to Hawaii with me."

I could tell by his tone that he'd meant it as a joke, but I couldn't reply in kind. "It'd probably be easier than going back to New York," I sighed. _At least in Hawaii, I'd have you_, I added silently.

He glanced up at me, his hands stilling their caresses. "Is that what's bothering you?" he asked me. "Leaving?"

I shrugged, pushing my hands through his hair. "The last time I moved away – _really_ moved away…it was horrible," I admitted, shuddering as unwanted memories of being shunned at the end of sixth grade inundated me. I'd been _happy_ to leave then, ready to get away from a world of people who just thought me a weird, unwanted freak because I couldn't control my newly-discovered diabetes.

"I don't talk to those people anymore," I continued. "And honestly? I didn't even _like_ the people I left in New York, not the first time around." I sighed, feeling tears beginning to well behind my eyes. "I don't know if I could give up the friends I've worked so hard to win here."

"We don't all give up on friendship so easily," he reminded me, his hands moving in slow, soothing circles over my back.

I touched his face, bringing his eyes back to mine. "Why did you do it? Why did _you_ leave, and go all the way to Hawaii, of all places?"

He exhaled sharply, closing his eyes and resting his head against my chest. "Because I needed it," he confessed, his words reverberating through me. "I needed to get away from this craziness I call family and just find myself, you know? Figure out who I am, other than 'Sam Thomas – Middle Child.'"

I nodded silently, even though he couldn't see me, still threading my fingers through his hair.

"And you know what I realized?" he continued after a moment. "My friends are still my friends, even from six time zones away. My family is _much_ more bearable with a little distance between us."

His assurances were doing nothing for the heaviness still lingering behind my eyes. I absolutely _detest_ crying, but this was what real fear did to me. "I don't know if I could be so brave," I managed to choke out.

Sam lifted his head from my chest. "Are you kidding me?" he replied incredulously. "You're the bravest person I know."

The muscles across my torso constricted as I struggled to meet the intensity of his gaze. "You're just saying that," I whispered.

His hands drifted from my back to my waist, one closing over the juncture on my abdomen where my insulin meter met the connecting catheter. "No, I'm not," he argued quietly.

For a long moment, all I could do was stare up at him, my eyes searching the depths of his – for what, I don't know. We were not really the type to make promises to each other; it was good, it was great, and even when it wasn't, we could never really let it go. Outside, I could hear the swell of rain, falling harder and more insistently against the window beside us. How ironic, I thought, that it had been such a beautiful, sunny day – not a cloud in the sky for the graduation ceremony that morning, nor the class party that afternoon – and now the weather was as mixed up as my own feelings.

I urged Sam closer to me, spreading my hands over the planes of his back. "Maybe I will visit you in Hawaii," I said softly, drawing him into another kiss. This one was a little less comforting and a little more urgent. I raked my nails across his skin. "On one condition."

"Oh yeah?" he replied, his breath heavy and hard on my neck. "And what's that?"

I caught his eye once more. "That you visit me in New York."

He gazed at me intently, and I watched as understanding dawned across his features. "You've got yourself a deal, Stacey McGill," he drawled, a slow smile curving his lips. He ducked his head into the hollow of my neck, pressing a lingering, inviting kiss just under the collar of my sweatshirt.

"While we're handing out conditions," he murmured, his hands sliding down the backs of my thighs and coming to rest behind my knees, rolling his hips suggestively against mine, "come upstairs with me? I'll even sneak you back into Kristy's room before the others wake up."

I considered his offer. I considered the fact that I wasn't tired, and would most likely just lie awake anyway. I considered the fact that I didn't want to disturb my friends, and there was no way I could go back to Kristy's room now, feeling unsatisfied. I considered the fact that that the last time I'd had sex with him, it had been the start of a very intense and romantic relationship, something that had been lacking from my life for an inexcusably long time.

"Okay," I agreed, wrapping my arms around him as he lifted me off the chaise.


	7. Reconnected

Title: Reconnected

Author: LuxKen27

Prompt: #080 – Party

Universe: Post-canon

Genre: Friendship/Romance

Rating: T

Warning: Language

Word Count: 4,450

Summary: Stacey and Sam are reconnected in a most unexpected way on the eve of his senior prom. Prequel to 'Rekindled.'

_Disclaimer:_The _Baby-sitters Club_ concept, storyline, and characters are © 1986 – 2000 Ann M. Martin/Scholastic Corporation. No money is being made from the creation of this material. No copyright infringement is intended.

.xxxxx.

"Hey, you guys!" called a breathless voice from behind us. "Wait up!"

Corinne Baker rolled her eyes as she drew to a halt. "Hurry up, loser," she returned sardonically, glancing over her shoulder with a smirk. We all turned then, watching as Penny Weller jogged down the crowded hallway towards us.

"Sorry, sorry," she continued, exhaling sharply as she caught up to us. "Ms. Fenimore kept me after class."

Corinne arched a brow. "No problem," she replied, in a voice that very much implied it was a problem. She was smiling however, as were the rest of my friends. Even Penny smiled, albeit uncertainly. I didn't blame her; my own smile felt tight and uncomfortable. It was always hard to tell what kind of mood Corinne was in – she had the ability to smile through seething anger. It was a little scary, and it didn't take much to set her off.

We stood in awkward silence for a moment. I glanced at the rest of our friends – Sheila McGregor, Margie Greene, and Darcy Redmond. They were all wearing identical, uncertain expressions. I'm sure I looked the same. We shifted our weight awkwardly from foot to foot, apprehension filling the air as we waited. For a fleeting moment, I felt a rush of exasperation – why were we all waiting for Corinne to tell us how to react?

I quickly quashed that feeling, though. It was my choice to be with these girls now. I should've felt privileged – back in middle school, they were the crème de la crème of the eighth grade. We hardly ran in the same social circles. The one time I _did_ try to break into their clique, I was roundly rejected. After all, I had the gall to date one of Corinne's ex-boyfriends, so I hardly knew my place.

Looking around now, I wondered if I still didn't know. These girls were my friends now, but sometimes, our vibe didn't feel very friendly.

Corinne flipped her hair over her shoulder. "Well, I don't know about you bitches, but I'm starving," she announced. She gestured down the hallway. "Shall we?"

The tension in the air deflated. Penny breathed a small sigh of relief, grateful to dodge Corinne's Ice Queen wrath. We murmured and smiled and followed Corinne down the hall, our chatter picking up once more.

As we rounded the corner to the cafeteria, I peeled away from the group. "I'll see you guys inside, okay?" I called, forcing a note of cheer into my voice that I didn't really feel.

It was my turn to feel the heaviness of Corinne's glare as she narrowed her eyes at me. "See you," she replied dismissively, turning her back on me as she stepped into the noisy, crowded cafeteria.

Sheila shot me a small smile. "I'll save you a seat," she called, the last of my group to disappear into the chaos.

I sighed, pushing open the door of the first floor girls' room. I'd been hanging out with those girls for nearly two years; they all knew I had diabetes. So why did Corinne always feel the need to let me know she was judging me? Like I was hanging onto my place in the group by a thread, simply because I didn't walk into the cafeteria with the rest of them on a daily basis?

There are some things I'll never understand.

I glanced around the bathroom quickly, wanting to make sure it was empty. Even though I was alone, I still slipped into the middle stall and locked the door behind me. I liked the extra privacy, and there was no need to subject anyone else to my daily insulin ritual. I looped my purse on the hook at the back of the door and took out my injection kit, resting it on the top of the toilet paper dispenser. It's been nearly five years since I started giving myself daily, multiple injections of insulin, and I'm more than used to it by now, but I still feel like a very sick person every time I have to do it. My hands were trembling as I ripped open the alcohol swab and rubbed a patch of clean skin on my abdomen. Even after I'd given myself the shot and dismantled the syringe, I felt weak and shaky. I braced myself against the stall wall, swallowing hard as I waited for the queasy feeling to pass. It seemed to last longer and longer these days, no matter what I did. I'd taken to giving myself my morning injection right at the breakfast table these last few weeks, but not even an immediate shot of juice or fruit seemed to help the dizzy, nauseated feeling.

After a few moments, I shifted my weight onto my feet and stood up again, replacing the items in my kit and closing it up, stowing it safely in my purse. I took another deep breath, wiping my hand across my brow as I prepared to exit the stall. My hand froze on the lock, however, when I heard the outer door open and close. The water in the far sink splashed on just then, and I rocked back on my heels. It would be just easier to wait until she left, I decided.

Her hand-washing seemed to go on forever, though, and my stomach turned over on itself. I couldn't stand it any longer – I _needed_ to eat. I unlatched the door in a rush, propelling my feet forward. Let whoever it was think the worst of me – anorexia rumors had followed me around for years. I kept my eyes low, focusing on the sink straight ahead, and I tried to ignore the other person.

The other sink shut off, but the girl just stood there, tapping her wet fingers on the sides of the basin. I could sense her hovering, as if she was waiting for me to notice her. I looked up sharply, opening my mouth to ask what the big deal was, but choked the words back when I realized who it was standing next to me.

I shut off the water in my sink as I gazed at the other girl's reflection in the mirror. "Kristy," I said, unable to completely hide my surprise.

Her eyes shifted to mine, though her expression didn't change. She hadn't really changed much in the last couple of years – she was still short, her long brown hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, dressed in warm-up pants with an untucked t-shirt. She looked awkward but determined, sizing me up in the mirror.

"Stacey," she returned after a moment, her voice carefully neutral.

My spine stiffened as I reached up for a paper towel to dry my hands. I felt as uncomfortable as she looked, and for good reason. We hadn't really talked much since the summer before freshman year, when I'd unceremoniously quit the Baby-sitters Club.

Again.

And, apparently, my quitting was just the beginning. I'd heard from Claudia that the group had dissolved a few months later, and that Kristy blamed me for it.

I hadn't spoken to her – or Mary Anne, or any of the other ex-club members, except Claudia – since.

I wasn't sure what she wanted from me now, and I wasn't sure I wanted to stick around and find out, either. Kristy is rather infamous for her ability to hold a grudge (just ask Cokie Mason). The last thing I needed was for her to think that this was the perfect opportunity to unload her wrath, especially if it had been simmering for a couple of years.

I tossed the paper towels in the trash and took a step away from the sink, which Kristy took as her cue to speak. "Listen, Stacey," she said, dropping her gaze, "I need to talk to you."

I furrowed my brow, studying her reflection in the mirror. "About?" I prodded hesitantly.

"Sam," she replied, and my heart skipped a beat. I stepped up to the sink again, my curiosity piqued. Kristy's expression was still stormy, but she barreled on.

"You know he's a senior this year, right?" she said.

I nodded silently, wondering where all of this was leading.

"And for whatever reason, he's really into all of this senior prom stuff," she continued, waving her hand dismissively. I hid a smile – _that_ was the Kristy I remembered, never having much patience for dances or dates.

Still, I had to wonder why she was telling me all of this. My stomach turned again, and desperately, I willed her to get to the point.

Her eyes met mine in the mirror again. "His girlfriend dumped him," she said flatly.

My hunger deserted me. I slumped forward slightly, gripping the sides of the basin for support.

Kristy shrugged, struggling to contain her emotions. "I guess they were close. She really did a number on him – apparently it was out of the blue. Said she was bored of him, wanted to date other people, or some such nonsense." Her mouth twisted in a fierce frown, her hands fisting at her side. "Whatever," she muttered. "He's been moping around the house ever since. If I wasn't depending on him to bring me to school, he'd probably keep himself locked up in his room on a daily basis."

I bit my lip, unsure of how to react to this news. My immediate feeling was one of, well, _surprise_. I'd known of Sam's relationship with this girl – he'd more or less broken it off with me to pursue her. We'd dated casually, on and off, since I was in middle school. We were never exclusive, even if I'd wanted that, once upon a time. More than that, though, we're friends – good friends, _real _friends, the kind of friends who see each other through really shitty situations. I'd leaned on him, and he'd leaned on me, and, at times, things had taken a romantic turn.

I didn't like giving up that part of our relationship, but I could understand it, especially when I saw him with her for the first time. Sam was in absolute awe of her, in a way he'd never been of me – or any other girl. He was so head over heels in love that I couldn't be angry or upset that he'd decided to go for her. And she'd seemed nice enough, at the time.

Though, if Kristy's story was true, I could certainly understand her desire to absolutely deck the girl now.

All the same, I was equally surprised that she'd sought me out to deliver this news. My relationship with Sam had strengthened over the years, enduring the rift that had ended my friendship with his sister. It was, I had to admit, pretty big of Kristy to seek me out, even if I wasn't sure I could do anything to make the situation better.

It was hard not to feel for her, though – the amount of her brother's pain that she felt herself was obvious, as was her determination to make it better. Kristy has always been fiercely loyal to those she loves, and that's definitely something that I miss, now that we're no longer friends.

"Anyway," she sighed, releasing her fists, smoothing her still-damp hands over the front of her pants. "I know you two…"

Her words trailed off as she turned and looked at me, furrowing her brow with grim determination. "I know you two are close, even if you're mostly caught up in your own little world these days."

I flushed under her scrutiny, but let the rude comment slide.

"My brother really needs a friend right now, Stacey," she continued, working to keep her tone even. "And I think – I think that friend should be you."

That brought me up short. "So what are you saying?" I asked cautiously, unsure of her reasoning.

She exhaled sharply, schooling her features into one of exaggerated patience, as if she was about to explain a complicated concept to an eight-year-old. "You mean a lot to my brother, and so does this prom. So why don't _you_ go with him?" she suggested, managing not to sound as condescending as she looked.

"I don't know…" I was hesitant. I've been through bad breakups before, and the last thing I ever felt like doing was going out and celebrating. And what could be worse than feeling miserable at your senior prom? I didn't blame Sam for wanting to sit this one out.

"Come on," Kristy wheedled. "It's not like they print the names of the couples on the prom tickets or anything." She looked – and sounded – doubtful of that last detail, but she's never been one to let details get in her way when she's on a roll. "And it's not like you'd be the only sophomore there – aren't, um, some of your friends going, too?"

I nodded, but didn't speak. Corrine had been bragging about being asked to the prom by a senior, lording it over the rest of us like we were inferior if we couldn't do the same. Sometimes, being friends with her was incredibly draining.

I eyed Kristy. Not for the first time did I wonder if I'd made a mistake, trading in one difficult friend for another.

Kristy rolled her eyes. "Oh, _come on_, Stacey," she huffed, fisting her hands against her hips. "I realize you're hanging around with the plastic personality brigade now, but can't you put someone else's feelings first, for a change?" She shook her head. "You know what? Never mind. Forget I even asked."

She turned on her heel, storming towards the door. She had it halfway open before I managed to formulate a response.

"Kristy!" I yelped. "Would you just wait a minute?"

She looked back at me, her expression full – of frustration, of anger, of helplessness. I'd only ever seen Kristy cry once before, all the way back in seventh grade when we thought another group of girls was usurping our baby-sitting territory. Her expression now was almost identical to the way it had looked then.

"I'll do it, okay?" I said, my voice sounding far calmer than I felt.

She nodded curtly. "Thanks," she grunted, turning around and storming out of the bathroom.

.xxxxx.

Our strange conversation floated around the back of my mind for the rest of the afternoon – through the disgusting hot lunch in the cafeteria, through Corinne's thousand-yard accusatory stare, through history and English and art classes that afternoon. My punishment for being late to lunch was for the rest of the group to desert me the moment the final bell rang that afternoon, but I didn't care.

I wanted to see for myself that what Kristy had told me was true.

Not that I thought she was lying, but…well, if Sam was in as bad a shape as she intimated, I wanted to know exactly what I was getting myself into – and how guilty I should feel that I hadn't noticed it myself.

I lingered in the parking lot after school, pretending to find the rose bushes near the gym particularly fascinating. I didn't have to wait long – it's not hard to pick Kristy Thomas out of a crowd, especially not when she's carrying a softball bat over one shoulder and hustling as if her life depended on it. Even from halfway across the parking lot, I could hear her chattering a mile a minute. She looked back sharply then, dropping the bat to the ground as she realized she'd gotten out ahead of her companion.

"Come on, Sam," she cajoled, trotting back a couple of steps and tugging on her brother's sleeve. "You're going to make me late!"

I waited, straining my ears to hear his reply – I was expecting something jokey, or witty, or gently sarcastic, but heard nothing. If he spoke, it was barely a murmur; I couldn't hear it. Kristy's expression softened, and she simply took his arm, slowing down to his speed. Sam trudged along beside her as if he the weight of the world rested on his shoulders, his head hanging down like a lost, unloved puppy's.

.xxxxx.

It was incredibly short notice – only three days had passed between my conversation with Kristy in the girls' room and the day of the prom – but I managed to pull it off. My mother helped me pick out a beautiful, dark red dress, long and slim-fitting and off the shoulder. It was more of an evening gown than a true prom dress, but I thought it looked really sophisticated. I paired it with some tasteful silver jewelry, which looked great in contrast to my springtime tan. My mother insisted on dressing my hair, swirling it up in a complicated hairstyle and tucking it behind silver combs.

The final package looked pretty amazing, if I do say so myself. Certainly not bad for three days' work (with a big thanks to my mother's employee discount from Belair's)!

The prom had already officially started by the time I made it across town to the Thomas-Brewer mansion, but it was still early in the evening. The sun waned behind the house as I pulled into the driveway. I carefully extracted myself from my car and walked up the front steps, smoothing my dress over my hips and taking a deep breath as I contemplated the door.

For one brief moment, doubt clouded my mind. What if this was all a monumental joke, some weird revenge scheme that Kristy had concocted to get back at me for quitting the BSC?

_No_, I told myself, my eyes falling closed, a memory of Sam's sad figure from two days ago floating into the forefront of my mind. Kristy can be rude, but she's not cruel – and neither is Sam. He enjoyed playing practical jokes on us back in middle school, but that was all in good fun.

I rang the bell, feeling guilty for even entertaining such mean thoughts. What had spending all my time with Corinne and her group done to me?

It wasn't long before I _felt_ – rather than heard – the thunderous galloping of feet on the other side of the door. I could hear muffled voices on the other side, accompanied by the muffled bark of a dog, but still, the door remained closed.

I furrowed my brow, feeling both confused and amused.

Just as I was trying to decide whether or not to ring the bell again, the commotion in the house stopped.

"Seriously, Kristy," came a male voice, growing clearer as the knob turned in front of me, "why do I have to open the door? _You're already standing here_." The door swung open, revealing to me the menagerie that waited on the other side – but the only person I saw was my erstwhile date.

He was staring at me in utter amazement, as if I was the last person he expected to be standing on his doorstep.

"Hi, Sam," I greeted him, suddenly feeling nervous. I clasped the strap of my handbag between my fingers.

He blinked rapidly. "Stacey," he sputtered, his eyes roving down the length of me, "you look – _amazing_!" (I flushed.) He furrowed his brow as his gaze met mine once more. "But…what are you doing here?"

I smiled at him, pleased to see an expression other than despair cross his features. "I'm your date, silly," I replied, my nerves banking easily, now that I knew he liked what he saw. I took a step forward, laying my hand over his. "We're going to the prom."

"We are?" he echoed skeptically, not quite able to tear his eyes away from me. I could understand his confusion – he was standing there in ratty jeans and an old t-shirt, quite obviously having given up on the idea of going to his senior prom now that his girlfriend had deserted him.

I squeezed his hand reassuringly, catching his gaze once more. I hated to see him so troubled, and I could sense that the old, fun-loving Sam lurking just below the surface…if only he could move past his hurt long enough to let it out.

He leaned close, lowering his voice. "This isn't a joke?" he asked, his tone almost desperate, making me wonder just how much his ex had messed him up.

I drew a bit closer, my smile fading as I searched his eyes. "This isn't a joke," I assured him. _You know I could never hurt you like that_, I added silently, before catching myself – _did_ he know that?

After a long moment, his mouth curved into a smile, causing my heart to skip a beat. "All right," he said, lacing his fingers through mine. "I'm going to the prom!"

I smiled back, tilting into him as the clasp of his hand tightened over mine, only for the moment to be broken when a cheer broke out behind him. We glanced back, not even realizing we'd had an audience.

Sam took a step backwards, releasing my hand. "I'm – just – going to change," he said, pointing over his shoulder as he backed into the house. He gave me a lingering look as he turned for the stairs.

"Stacey! Stacey! Stacey!" While I was staring off behind my date, two sets of child-sized hands began pulling on my arms. I looked down, realizing that Karen and Emily Michelle were tugging me across the threshold and into the house, both wearing identical, enchanted smiles.

"You look beautiful!" Karen declared, gazing up at me adoringly.

"Pretty," agreed Emily Michelle, reaching out to touch my skirt.

"Gross," put in David Michael, drawing my attention further into the cavernous foyer. He was standing off to one side, watching his younger sisters with bemusement as they oohed and aahed over my dress. Andrew stood solemnly beside him, with Shannon, the dog, at their feet.

"Where are you going?" Karen wanted to know. She circled around me slowly, pressing the bridge of her glasses up the slope of her nose as she marveled at my dress.

I opened my mouth to respond, but someone beat me to it. "The prom," piped up a new voice. I looked up and saw Kristy standing next to her brothers. She gave me a small smile before stooping down to pet Shannon.

"The prom?" echoed Karen, sounding overawed. I could practically see the wheels turning in her head. She turned, spotting her brothers off to one side. "Come on, David Michael and Andrew," she said, marching up to them. "We're going to the prom!"

Before they could protest, Karen had both of them by the arms, dragging them into the living room. Emily Michelle trailed after them, humming a nonsensical tune and dancing around, a dreamy expression on her face.

I smiled, shaking my head as I smoothed my gown once more. There's never a dull moment at the Thomas-Brewer household.

Kristy stood up, allowing Shannon to skitter on behind the kids. She slowly turned to face me, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jeans and training her eyes to a point beyond my left shoulder. "Thanks, Stace," she murmured.

"Sure," I managed, swallowing hard over the lump that had suddenly formed in my throat.

The awkward moment was saved when Mrs. Brewer wandered into the foyer. "Did I hear someone say something about the prom?" she asked pleasantly. Kristy ducked out of the room as her mother approached me, her eyes widening with delight. "Oh, Stacey, you look lovely!"

"Thanks," I replied, feeling a light flush burnish my cheeks at her approval.

"Doesn't she?" echoed another voice, drawing our attention to the stairway. My breath caught in my chest as I watched Sam descend. He was dressed to perfection in a tastefully cut black tuxedo, his dark hair curling ever so slightly over his forehead. He smiled at me, his entire expression lighting up, and I felt warm all over, my heart fluttering in my chest.

"You clean up pretty nicely yourself," Mrs. Brewer joked as her son approached, brushing a bit of lint from the lapel of his jacket.

Sam only had eyes for me as he took my hands in his. "I guess I'm glad I kept this," he said sheepishly, "though I never thought I'd have the chance to wear it, after…well, anyway, you look beautiful. Have I told you that yet?"

"You both look wonderful," Mrs. Brewer cut in. "Now, how about a picture before you go?" She turned, taking a few steps down the hall as she called out to her husband to bring the camera.

I wasn't really paying much heed to her, however, the entirety of my attention taken up by Sam. He looked like the _old_ Sam again, the one who had captured my heart in seventh grade, his eyes alive and his smile promising. A rush of memories came to the surface – the first time we'd confessed our feelings to each other, our first real date, our first real kiss…

A flash went off in my periphery, startling me, quickly followed by another, and another.

"Oh, Mom," Sam groaned, releasing one of my hands and holding his up in front of his face. "Do we _really_ have to do this?"

"Just one more," she cajoled, directing us to stand next to each other. Sam's arm snaked across my shoulders, and my patented picture-smile turned genuine just as she snapped the picture.

Mrs. Brewer looked up, her eyes turning watery. "It's so nice to see you smiling again," she said softly, and I knew she wasn't talking to me. I could feel tears welling up behind my eyes, and I knew that if I wanted to make it to the dance with my makeup intact, that it was time to leave.

"Come on," I said softly, taking Sam's arm. "We should go."

"Have a lovely time!" his mother called after us, still clutching the camera. Her words drew the others from the living room, and all of his younger brothers and sisters came to see us off, making me feel proud and self-conscious all at the same time. We descended the front steps and walked down the driveway, breathing a sigh of relief when we finally heard the heavy front door close.

Sam stopped a couple of steps from my car, causing me to glance back at him. "Stacey," he said quietly, gazing at me intently. "I don't know how you knew, but – thank you."

_Thank your sister_, I thought, drawing closer to him. I gazed up at him, feeling bold enough to touch his cheek before curling my hand around his neck. "Anytime, Sam," I whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips before pulling away with a smile. "Anytime."


	8. The Dangling Conversation

Title: The Dangling Conversation

Author: LuxKen27

Prompt: #089 – Commitment

Universe: Canon

Genre: Friendship

Rating: T

Word Count: 7,491

Summary: James Hobart has perfected the art of one-sided conversation.

_Disclaimer:_The _Baby-sitters Club_ concept, storyline, and characters are © 1986 – 2000 Ann M. Martin/Scholastic Corporation. No money is being made from the creation of this material. No copyright infringement is intended.

"The Look of Love" © 1967 Burt Bacharach and Hal David [Dusty Springfield]

.xxxxx.

_Dear Susan,_

_Hi, how are you? I'm okay. I hope you are, too. I hope you don't mind if I write you sometimes. You're still my mate, even though you don't live here anymore. Your mum said school has already started for you. She told my mum that you're taking lots of music classes. I don't know why – you already play the piano really, really good. Have you learned any new songs yet? Do you think you might learn to play another instrument? I take violin lessons. Maybe when you're home next, we could play something together._

_Your friend,_

_James_

When James Hobart is eight years old, he crosses Bradford Court and walks right up to his neighbor's house, glancing at the front door with uncertainty. Just as he's about to reach up and ring the bell, the door swings open, revealing a tall, plump figure.

"Oh!" the lady cries, looking down with surprise.

"Hullo," James replies hesitantly. He swallows hard, clutching the envelope he holds with clammy fingers. "I'm James Hobart, from across the street?" He feels a faint blush spreading across his cheeks, suddenly wondering if this was such a good idea after all.

A flicker of recognition crosses the lady's face, and her expression warms. "Of course, James," she says, stepping over the threshold and bringing the door back into its frame behind her. "It's lovely to see you again! What can I do for you on this fine afternoon?"

She looks like she's going out to run errands, and James doesn't want to bother her. "Well, Mrs. Felder, I was wondering if it would be okay…" His words trail off as he averts his eyes, gazing at the envelope he clutches, worrying the corner of it under one of his thumbs. "Do you think I could write to Susan at her new school? Would she like that? I miss her sometimes, and maybe we could be pen friends."

Mrs. Felder stares at him for a moment, taking in his hopeful expression. "I'm not sure Susan would be able to write back," she says slowly, as if she's measuring her words.

"Ever?" James furrows his brow, drawing his lower lip between his teeth as he sinks into thought. "That's okay," he continues finally, more to himself than to Susan's mother. "I'd still like to write to her. I know how hard it is to be the new kid somewhere. My mum said I should ask you first, though, and besides, I need her address."

Mrs. Felder dabs at her eyes, fumbling in her purse and withdrawing a tissue. "I think that would be fine, James," she replies. "I think she'd like that very much."

James is unprepared when she suddenly sweeps him into a hug; her embrace is startling, but at the same time, strangely comforting. "You're very thoughtful," she whispers a moment later when she lets him go. "And very sweet, for thinking of Susan."

_I know how hard it is to be lonely_, James thinks wistfully, glancing at the envelope once again. All four corners are beginning to curl. He wrote the letter a week ago, and carries it with him every day, trying to muster the courage to send it. He has new friends now, other friends from his class and his neighborhood: Nicky Pike, Myriah Perkins, Charlotte Johansson, Becca Ramsey.

But still, he thinks of Susan, and a little piece of him worries for her.

"I have an idea," Mrs. Felder announces, still dabbing at the corners of her eyes with her tissue. "Why don't we mail this letter together? Today." She reaches into her purse again, this time taking out a pen and an old slip of paper. "I'll write the address on this letter, and then I'll give you a copy of it, how's that?"

"Okay!" James nods, his hesitation gone. He follows her a few paces to one of the wicker chairs on her front porch, and watches thoughtfully as she fills in Susan's address on the worn and wrinkled envelope. Her handwriting is smooth and easy, in stark contrast to his messy, labored lettering. She then prints the same information on the slip of paper and gives it to him.

They walk together down the sidewalk that runs in front of the Felders' home, to the corner of Bradford Court, where a shiny blue post office mail box sits beside the newspaper dispensers. James eases open the shoot and Mrs. Felder drops the letter in.

"When do you think she'll get it?" James wonders, frowning as he stares at the label detailing the pickup and delivery times.

"Next week, probably," Mrs. Felder predicts.

James turns and smiles, feeling lighter and happier than he has all week. "Good," he replies firmly. "I don't want her to think I've forgotten about her."

.xxxxx.

_Dear Susan,_

_Hi, how are you? I'm okay. I hope you are, too. Do you remember the play I was telling you about? The one I wrote? It stars Chewbacca, the Perkins' dog. He's a lost puppy at the mall, and Myriah is trying to find his owner. It's a really good play – only Zach doesn't think so. He's been mean to me lately, telling me I shouldn't play with girls. How dumb is that? Myriah and Gabbie are lots of fun. So are Margo and Claire Pike. I wish you could've met them before you left. They would've been your friends in an instant, unlike dumb old Zach. Sometimes I wonder if I still want to be friends with him._

_Do you have any friends at school? I hope so. I also hope you're getting along with them better than I am with Zach right now. _

_Oh, well. Everyone else really likes the play, even my older brother Ben! It's been really exciting. Maybe I can send you a tape of our next performance. I think you'd really enjoy it, even though there isn't any music._

_Talk to you soon,_

_Your friend always,_

_James_

When James Hobart is nine years old, he's playing in his front yard with his younger brothers, Mathew and Johnny. Both of his parents are at work, and his older brother Ben is studying at the library with Mallory Pike, so they have a baby-sitter.

But that's okay – James and his brothers like their baby-sitters. Especially Kristy. She's always full of fun ideas, and she really likes sports. She was also Susan's steady baby-sitter last year, so James feels a special kinship with her. He wonders, sometimes, if she thinks about Susan as much as he does, but he's too shy to ask.

They're all engaged in a rousing game of freeze tag when James notices a car pulling into the Felders' driveway across the street. He stops and stares, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest. He doesn't even notice when Mathew tags him, gleefully shouting, "Got you!" but it doesn't matter anyway – he's frozen in his spot, game or no game.

"I wonder what's going on?" Kristy muses aloud, slowing to a stop near where James is standing. She watches, too, as Mr. Felder exits the car and walks around, opening the passenger's side door. Mrs. Felder steps out, carrying a blanket-wrapped bundle. Her husband quickly closes the car door behind her, and the two of them slowly begin to walk towards the front of the house, their eyes pinned to whatever it is that Mrs. Felder is holding.

James feels a strange sense of disappointment as he eyes their car, realizing there is no one else waiting to get out.

"Mrs. Felder! Mrs. Felder!" Kristy calls out, waving her arms to get their attention. Mathew and Johnny have abandoned the game as well, falling into place near their brother and their baby-sitter, and all of them keenly gaze across the street.

The Felders turn just as they reach their front door. They talk for a minute between themselves, and Mr. Felder opens the door for his wife before turning back and bounding down the front steps. "Kristy!" he booms, waving back. "Great to see you again!"

"What's going on?" Kristy asks, her voice carrying loud and clear across the street. James glances up at her, admiring her ability to loudly speak her mind.

Mr. Felder is out of breath as he darts across Bradford Court, inhaling and exhaling sharply as he stands on the sidewalk in front of the Hobart house. "We've – " he tries, breaking into a grin as he breathes deeply once more. He pauses, catches his breath, and grins again.

"We've had the baby!" he announces, sweeping his arms out in a proud, excited gesture.

Kristy's face lights up. "Congratulations!" she cries, grabbing up Mathew's and Johnny's hands, as if they'll anchor her to the ground. "That's wonderful news! Oh, wait until I tell the others!"

"What baby?" Mathew asks, squinting as he gazes up at Mr. Felder.

"Hope," Mr. Felder replies proudly, resting his hands on his hips. "Hope Grace Felder, our brand new baby girl." His eyes begin to look teary. "Our miracle," he says in a softer tone of voice.

James frowns. Their _miracle_? He's happy for them, and happy for Susan, too – now she's a big sister, just like he's a big brother – but something in Mr. Felder's words rubs him the wrong way. He glances at Kristy, wondering if she picked up on it, too.

Kristy, however, is absolutely ecstatic. "I can't wait to see her!" she says. "You know, Mr. Felder, if you ever need a baby-sitter, you can always give the BSC a call. We've all had Red Cross child care training, and we took the special infant course they offer as well. There's no one better prepared to take care of your baby than us!"

"I'll keep that in mind," Mr. Felder replies with a wry smile. "Right now, though, I think I'd better get back. My wife has had an exhausting few days, and I want to spend time with her and our new daughter before my time away from work is up."

_But what about your old daughter?_ James wonders, his expression falling into a scowl as he watches Mr. Felder wave goodbye and jog back to his side of the street. _Does she even know yet?_

"Isn't this exciting?" Kristy exclaims, gathering James and his brothers and herding them back into the yard. Mathew and Johnny rush forward, keen to pick up their game once more, but James lingers behind, his expression still clouded. Kristy slows her step, waiting for him to catch up with her.

"What's on your mind, James?" she asks, throwing an arm across his shoulders.

"Susan," he admits, so lost in thought that he completely misses the surprised look on Kristy's face. "Do you think the Felders have told her yet? About Hope, I mean?"

Kristy clears her throat. "Of course they have," she replies, giving him a supportive squeeze. "In fact, I'll bet they're going to bring the baby up for a visit really soon, so Susan can meet her."

James shrugs. He isn't so sure. He knows how hard it is to have younger siblings, especially at first. He remembers how jealous he felt with Mathew was born, how much he feared that the new baby would take his parents' attention away from him. Susan would probably feel the same way, and she was all alone at her school. She might even feel neglected, if she knew her parents had a _miracle_ _baby_ to fuss over now.

"Hey," Kristy says, catching James's attention once more. "You know what would be a really good idea? Maybe you could write to Susan and tell her what it's like to have a new baby around."

James squints up at her. "You think I should?"

Kristy nods. "You're an old pro at this by now, with two younger brothers." She ruffles his hair. "I know I wish someone had told me about new siblings when _I_ was a kid – boy, are they a lot of work!"

James looks across the yard at Mathew and Johnny, who've given up waiting on the others and are gleefully chasing each other around instead. "Yeah," he agrees, a smile rising to his lips, "but they're a lot of fun, too."

.xxxxx.

_Dear Susan,_

_Hi, how are you? I'm okay. I hope you are, too. We're back home in Australia! I can hardly believe it. It's so, so awesome. I've missed this place so much. We've visited lots of family and friends and my mates and I have been to the beach every day, just like old times. This postcard is from Queensland, see? It has a really cool picture of the Great Barrier Reef on the back. You'd love it here, Susan! Maybe one day you can visit and see it for yourself. Well, I'm running out of room, so I'll stop here._

_Longer Letter Later! James_

When James Hobart is eleven years old, he's invited to a Valentine's Day party. It's not just _any_ Valentine's Day party, with cakes and candies and homemade cards stuffed in makeshift mailboxes. Oh, no – this is a bona fide _school dance_, where boys are supposed to dress up in their finest clothes, pin flowers to the lapels of their jackets, and bring corsages for their dates.

Or so James thinks.

As he glances around the crowded gymnasium of Stoneybrook Middle School, he realizes just how wrong he is – and he begins to feel foolish.

He sighs as he clutches a paper cup full of punch, slinking into the shadows of the room. He's obviously overdressed, wearing his best black suit with a bright red polo shirt, a matching carnation attached to his lapel, while everyone else wears slightly nicer versions of school clothes – khaki pants and button-down shirts, denim skirts with pretty blouses. He was too shy to ask a girl to be his date, so he stands alone in the corner now, staring down into his candy red punch, feeling hot and stuffy and miserable – and alone.

_If I were back in Cairns right now_, he thinks, tugging at the hem of his polo shirt, _it'd be eighty-eight degrees outside. I'd be at the beach with my friends, laughing and playing and having a good time in the ocean._ He thinks back to his family's trip back to Australia at the beginning of the year, and a dull, hollow ache spreads across his chest. He misses it more than he realized. Life seems so uncomplicated back home, and right now, he desperately wishes he was still there. He'd give anything to be lying out in the warm, sparkling sand, breathing in the fresh ocean breeze, dances and dates and girls the furthest thing from his mind.

It's not that he doesn't like girls – he just doesn't seem to be as _fascinated_ with them as his friends are. Zach Wolfson likes to brag about going out with a seventh grader at every opportunity. Nicky Pike dissolves into a bumbling mess any time Charlotte Johansson is nearby. Jake Kuhn trails after Lindsey DeWitt like a lost puppy. And Buddy Barrett can't talk about anything else – or _to_ anyone else, it seems. James glances to his left, where Buddy is holding court, standing in the middle of a circle of giggling girls, telling some wild story with lots of big, expressive gestures.

James's eyes float over the crowded room. For as big a deal as his friends made about bringing dates to the dance, it sure doesn't seem that way now. The girls have gathered on one side of the gym, venturing out on the dance floor in packs but otherwise ignoring the boys. The boys, with the exception of Buddy, are doing the same, standing near the refreshments and making disgusting jokes amongst themselves, or daring each other to dance with the girls they brought as dates.

Not for the first time, James wishes Susan was there – not only would having her around take the pressure off about "having a date," but he'd have someone to actually pass the time with, now that he's here. It's one thing for his friends to abandon their dates, too shy to actually _dance_ with the girls they admired so much, but it's quite another for them to forget that _he's_ there, too. At least with Susan, he wouldn't be standing _alone_ in the corner, like a wallflower.

Just as he's about to give up, head for the lobby and call his mom for an early ride home, someone walks into his field of vision.

"Hi, James," Carolyn Arnold says shyly, taking a step closer to him. She's dressed in a trendy outfit, an oversized off-the-shoulder red blouse and matching red skirt. Barrettes in the shapes of hearts tame her short, curly hair. Her cheeks are about as red as her clothes as she gazes up at him, pulling her lower lip between her teeth.

"Hi," James manages to reply, over his own feelings of surprise. Watching her blush is making _him_ blush as well, though he is slightly bewildered as to why. He notices that her hands are tucked behind her, and suddenly, his heart starts thumping again.

"I, um," she begins, flushing even harder as she averts her eyes, "I made this for you." She pulls out a card from behind her back, pressing it into his hands before he realizes what is happening. She takes a step back as he looks down at it. The card is made of heavy pink card stock folded in half, a bright red heart emblazoned on the front with a cute invitation to open it up. He's momentarily surprised when he does, and another heart jumps out at him, springing forward from a pleated strip of construction paper. He takes a closer look at this heart, which has something printed very neatly on its front:

_Roses are red,_

_Violets are blue_

_I think you're sweet,_

_And pretty cute, too!_

James swallows hard as he contemplates the poem, feeling all of the blood in his head flooding his face as he blushes right down to the roots of his reddish gold hair. "Thank you," he sputters, his voice sounding strange in his own ears, and he wonders for a moment if that's what he's supposed to say. He likes the card, but he feels very overwhelmed all the same.

He glances back to Carolyn, relieved to see a huge smile spreading across her face. "You're welcome," she returns, sounding far more confident than he feels. She takes another step forward, reaching for one of his hands. "Would you like to dance?"

James can hear his heart pounding in his ears. The skin of his hand prickles with electricity when she touches him, and suddenly it's very hard to breathe in her presence. His immediate instinct is to run, but instead he finds himself replying, "Yes." There's just something about her smile that captivates him, and banishes all other thoughts from his mind as he follows her out onto the dance floor.

That night, his dreams are filled with red and silver, hearts and flowers, and Carolyn Arnold's happy grin.

.xxxxx.

_Dear Susan,_

_Hi. How are you? I'm okay. I hope you are, too. I hope your summer is going better than mine right now. I'm into week six of having this broken leg, and I'm about to go out of my mind with boredom. I can only read so many books and watch so much TV, you know? But one thing has made all of this totally bearable – my friends. They are really cool. Near the end of July, after my second reconstructive surgery, they threw me a 'Christmas in July' celebration. Can you believe that? With a Christmas tree and everything! I got loads of games and books and things to keep me busy – and my parents even splurged and bought me the new PS2. I think my brothers have played it just as much as I have, haha._

_If you were here, we'd totally have to have a Dynasty Warriors party. I know you'd enjoy it._

_I hope life is treating you well._

_Your friend always,_

_James_

When James Hobart is fifteen years old, he breaks his leg during a pickup football game. He's playing with his brother Mathew and his friend Nicky Pike, and all it takes is one wrong-footed step – which turns into a slide, which lands him at the bottom of a pile over the fumbled ball – to ruin his summer for good. He breaks his leg in two places, which requires not one, but _two_ rounds of surgery (to insert pins and screws in his knee and ankle, respectively). He can't climb stairs with his heavy cast or crutches, which necessitates a semi-permanent move into the family room on the first floor of his house. He spends most of his time during the day being bored and miserable – he's read all of the books in the house, even the boring ones; daytime TV is full of reruns from the '50s and inane soap operas; and he's beaten all of the video games his brothers have rented for his new console.

He's taken to staring out the window, watching the world go by as the endless summer days pass, and to writing letters to Susan.

He stares down at the letter he's just finished, twisting his mouth into a grim line. He's written her on a fairly consistently basis over the course of the last seven years, filling her in on the ups and downs of his life. He's sent her postcards from his vacations, letters from summer camp, and holiday cards. He's sent her funny thinking-of-you cards, letters scrawled on lined paper torn from his school notebooks, and even once made her a Valentine, copying the design of the card Carolyn Arnold had given him back in sixth grade. He couldn't remember the poem he'd written to go along with it, but it doesn't really matter now.

Mostly, he wonders why he still does it. She's never once written him back. There's never been any indication that she even _receives_ his letters, much less reads them. But still, he persists. Now that his days are reduced to little more than letter-writing, he's starting to question his commitment to this cause.

He still thinks of Susan quite often. It's hard not to, living across the street from her parents. Her sister, Hope, is six now, and she likes to play in her front yard, usually under the watchful eye of her mother or a baby-sitter. Sometimes they join her, to have a tea party or toss around a baseball, but more often than not, she's out there by herself, rollerblading in the driveway, or chatting out loud to an imaginary friend. Sometimes, if James ventures out onto his front porch in the afternoon, she'll call over to him, inviting him to join in one of her all-encompassing imaginary worlds, even from across the street. She likes to pretend she's a Power Ranger, or She-Ra, or an explorer on an ocean vessel deep under the sea. He's amazed when he listens to her play, and a little jealous that her imagination is so full and lush that it easily spills out into the world around her.

He thinks of Susan, and how she never connected to her environment, and it saddens him.

James glances at his watch and realizes its lunchtime. He's not feeling very hungry, but he decides to eat anyway. He stands up, leaning on one of his crutches for support, and slowly hobbles down the hall to the kitchen. His mother keeps fresh sandwiches in the fridge for him, so he pulls one out, along with a bottle of juice, and settles himself at the kitchen table to eat.

He glances out the window as he picks at his food, noting with a smile that Hope Felder is already outside, chattering to herself and her imaginary friend as she builds mud pies from a pit of dirt in her sandbox. She works diligently, scooping the sand into disposable pie tins and mixing it messily with water from a bucket sitting nearby, before lining them down the side of the sandbox. She seems happy and cheerful, completely wrapped up in whatever she's playing at – being a famous pastry chef, perhaps? – and watching her is entertaining, for the moment, at least.

He's never accepted one of Hope's invitations to play. It's not because he's fifteen, a mighty teenager too old to play with little kids. It's not because of his crutches or his cast, or because he's afraid of being hit by a car before he can hobble to the other side of the street. It's not even because he feels shy or prefers his own company.

It's because Hope is the spitting image of Susan. She has the same chestnut brown hair, the same carefully arranged features, the same tall, thin build. It's as if he's looking at the child Susan _could_ have been, if she wasn't sick – the kind of friend he so desperately wanted when he first moved to Stoneybrook, and the friend he'd secretly hoped she could become. She was so special, and yet so closed off from him.

He tries to resent Hope for being everything her sister couldn't be, but he can't.

He tries to forget about Susan, to break his nonsensical habit of writing to her…but he can't.

He wanders back into the family room, lowering himself with a sigh onto the sofa and reaching for the TV remote. He's just settling in for a long, boring afternoon of TV when the doorbell rings.

He freezes, flipping the TV off and sitting in silence to make sure he didn't imagine it.

The doorbell rings again.

James maneuvers himself up and onto his crutches, his heart hammering in his chest as he makes his way towards the front door. He can't imagine who would be there. His friends always call before they come over; no one is expecting any packages, and he's fairly certain that criminals don't announce their presence. So it's with much wariness that he opens the door – and surprise when he realizes who's there.

"Mrs. Felder!" he cries, blinking rapidly. He glances over her shoulder, only to see Hope still playing happily in the side yard, now accompanied by a baby-sitter. He looks back at his neighbor, registering the distraught expression on her face. "Is everything okay?"

Mrs. Felder searches his features for a long moment, looking stricken. "Yes," she finally says, her voice heavy with emotion. She gathers herself, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. When she looks at him, however, he's struck with the same fear that nearly bowled him over when he answered the door.

"I'm sorry to barge over here like this," she apologizes, "but I just have to ask you something." She heaves another deep breath before continuing. "This might sound odd, but…are you still writing to my daughter? To Susan?"

Her tone is sharp, but not accusatory. James's heart is in his throat now, feeling the heat of an embarrassed flush crawling up the back of his neck. Should he confess? Should he deny? Why did it matter anyway – and why was she bringing it up _now_, of all possible times?

He thinks back to the letter he's just finished, and decides it's a little too creepy to be coincidental.

"Yes?" he ventures, hating the way his voice ends in a squeak. "Is that okay?" He braces himself, gripping the bars of his crutches and hoping she'll take pity on him. He's never meant to overstep an unseen boundary. He knows the Felders are very protective of Susan, but then, so is he. He still considers her a friend, after all. Besides, no one ever told him to stop, so he didn't, even if he feels guilty about it now.

Mrs. Felder's expression melts into a wobbly smile. "It's okay," she says, her voice trembling as she unexpectedly throws her arms around him. She catches him off-guard, and he struggles to stay upright and on his crutches. "It's _more_ than okay."

"I don't understand," James stammers, feeling helpless as Mrs. Felder continues to hug him. When she pulls away, he's shocked to see tears streaming down her cheeks.

"I think this will explain everything," she replies, wiping her face with one hand as she pulls an envelope out of her pocket with the other. She offers it up to him as if it's a precious, holy object. As he reaches for it, she speaks again, almost cryptically: "And James? I just wanted to say – thank you."

James nods as he takes the envelope, turning it over in his hand. His eyes widen and his chest goes numb when he realizes what he holds. _Oh, my God_, he thinks to himself, his eyes rising and following Mrs. Felder's retreating back.

No wonder she's so emotional. No wonder she rushed straight over to him. No wonder she turns after she crosses the street, sending a little wave and a smile back in his direction.

After years of diligent correspondence – just as he's reached his breaking point, thinking he should give it up for good –

Susan writes him back.

.xxxxx.

_Dear James,_

_Hi. How are you? I'm okay. I hope you are too._

_Thank you very much for your letters. I have read each and every one of them. They mean a great deal to me. Thank you for writing to me so often. It is fun hearing about your family and your friends. I liked the postcard you sent me from Australia very much. I also liked the Valentine card. It is very pretty._

_I think of you often, too. I am very happy that you are my friend. I hope I see you when I come home to Stoneybrook. That will be in December, at Christmas-time. If not, then I hope you will come here next year. We are having a recital in May at my school. I am playing the piano._

_I would very much like to see you. You are a good friend. Nobody else in Stoneybrook writes to me, only my parents and you. It means a lot to me that you still write and tell me about your life. It seems you are great fun._

_Your friend always,_

_Susan_

When James Hobart is sixteen years old, he is invited to the year-end recital at the Stamford Alternative Academy. He not only receives the ornate invitation from the school in the mail, but he also receives a hand-written note from Susan, telling him about the concert and inviting him backstage beforehand.

He reads her letters over and over again until the pages are worn, still a little bit amazed to be holding them at all. Her handwriting is neat, printed, controlled with a firm hand, as if she puts a lot of thought into each stroke of her pen. Her grasp of grammar and vocabulary is childlike, but Mrs. Felder informs him that is to be expected. She communicates like most language-delayed children; they are happy that she communicates at all.

He spends most of the hour-long ride to Stamford trying to untangle the nervous knot that's lodged in his stomach. The Felders offer to drive him, but he declines, begging his parents to allow him to drive up there by himself instead. It takes a lot of wheedling and cajoling, but they finally cave, granting him permission.

He arrives early, gliding into the half-empty parking lot behind the school. He checks his watch as he climbs out of his mother's car. _Thirty minutes should be plenty of time to find her_, he thinks to himself, lifting his eyes to the imposing stone-walled building. _At least, I hope so._

He walks around to the front of the building, his eyes trained skyward as he marvels at this place Susan has called home for half of her life. It's ornate and imposing, a large, five-story building in Gothic style. It looks more like a cathedral than a school, and James feels goosebumps rising on his skin as he pushes through the heavy oak doors. The inside is just as cavernous as he expects, but luckily, there are discreet little signs posted throughout the hallways, directing visitors to the auditorium.

He nods to the ushers who have appeared in the corridors as he gets closer to his destination, taking a program from one as he walks into the concert space. It's surprisingly small, given the size of the rest of the building, and it's filling up rather quickly. Families and guests mill about, a low din of conversation filling the room and echoing against the acoustic tiles.

He continues down one of the aisles to the front of the room, looking both ways as he slips into the wings near the stage. He's surprised to see so many people hustling about, and for a moment, he thinks he's going to be dismissed, sent back into the audience like a good concertgoer. He swallows his apprehension, however, clutching his program between clammy fingers as he approaches someone who looks like she's in charge.

"Can you direct me to Susan Felder, please?" he asks, his voice sounding surprisingly calm in his own ears.

The woman looks at him, her eyes narrowing in assessment before brightening again. "Are you James Hobart?" she inquires, tapping her pen against the clipboard she holds. When he nods, she turns on her heel, pointing down the corridor behind her. "She's in the far practice room – end of the hall, go to the left."

He smiles gratefully, hurrying down the hall she indicates. It eases his mind a little bit to know that someone had to approve of his presence backstage – he can relax, knowing he doesn't have to constantly look over his shoulder or worry about being caught. And, as he walks down the hall, he sees other people hanging around, family members and friends offering last-minute bits of encouragement.

He reaches his destination and stops short, his heart pumping furiously in his chest. He's imagined this moment ever since receiving her invitation, but he's nervous all the same, not sure what to expect. Mrs. Felder has already warned him that Susan still doesn't speak, but now his mind's eye fills with all of the other things she used to do – running around aimlessly, staring fixedly into space, clicking and rocking and flapping her arms.

This is the moment when his illusions will be shattered, and not for the first time does he wonder if he wants to let go of them and see her, the _real _her, after all this time.

He closes his eyes. What other choice does he have?

The room is quiet when he pushes open the door. James draws a sharp breath. Susan sits at the piano, her hands poised over the keys. She stares straight ahead, even though there is no music. She is perfectly still, a statue frozen in time, but he doesn't notice this, at first.

No, what he sees is a beautiful young woman, tall and slim and long-limbed, dressed in a white blouse and black skirt. Her chestnut-colored hair falls in waves over her shoulders, pulled back loosely with a white ribbon, into a ponytail that ends halfway down her back. She sits in profile to him, her complexion smooth and creamy, her lips the color of a peach. His eyes fall to her fingers, long and tapered where they lay against the piano keys, and he swallows hard.

"Susan?" he says softly.

She doesn't respond. She doesn't even look in his direction.

He clears his throat. "Susan?" he tries again, taking a step closer, letting the door fall into place behind him. "It's me."

Still she sits, staring straight ahead, the only movement that of her chest, rising and falling under her soft, steady breath.

He bites his lip, taking another step, resting his hand hesitantly on the top of the piano. "Susan," he says again, a bit louder this time, "it's James. _James Hobart_, your friend from Stoneybrook."

His stomach knots up again when she fails to acknowledge him, and suddenly he feels tears welling behind his eyes. How is it that he can connect with her through his letters, but she can't seem to sense his presence when he's in the same room? How is it that she can offer an invitation into her world from afar, and yet still be closed off when he's there, ready to accept it?

He leans close, touching her shoulder with his free hand as he tries, one last time. "Susan," he says firmly, insistently. "It's James. Your friend. I'm here – just like you asked me."

She turns swiftly then, arresting him with her luminous gaze, her eyes locking onto his. Her eyes are beautiful, a deep shade of chocolate brown, wide set and softened by thick, dark lashes. He finds himself waiting with bated breath, wishing and hoping and praying for a flicker of recognition to cross her features.

She nods slowly, averting her eyes from his and training them onto the bench beside her. His brow creases in confusion when she looks at him again. She repeats the slow sweep of her eyes from him to the bench, then reaches out stiffly and touches the hand resting on the piano.

"Oh," he breathes, understanding dawning across his features. "You want me to sit?"

The grip on his hand tightens and her eyes slide forward, once again resting on the empty place where sheet music would normally rest. He complies with her strangely-drawn request, slipping down to sit beside her at the piano, and her hands resume their places over the keys.

For a moment, they sit in silence.

Then, Susan begins to play.

It's a haunting melody, low in the register of the keyboard, but with a slightly jazzy feel. Her hands move expertly over the keys, even as she stares straight ahead, not once looking down to check her place.

"The look of love / is in your eyes," she sings, her voice clear and bold, startling him slightly, drawing his attention away from her hands and onto her face. "The look your smile can't disguise…"

"The look of love / is saying so much more than/ just words could ever say," she continues, her voice rising with richness over the high, plaintive notes. "And what my heart has heard / well, it takes my breath away…"

She lifts her face, looking off slightly to the left, away from him, her expression softening slightly as the words continue to pour out of her. "You've got that look of love / it's on your face / a look that time can't erase…"

James feels heat rising though his body, radiating from his core and flushing over him in a nervous, slightly embarrassed wave. Did he truly wear his emotions so plainly? Could she sense the powerful attraction he feels to her, from just one glance, one long-lingering stare?

"Be mine tonight," she continues, her voice dipping into the alto range before rising again to sweet soprano. "Let this be just the start of so many nights like this / let's take a lover's vow / and then seal it with a kiss…"

James squirms in his seat beside her, dropping his eyes to the floor, feeling himself turn hot, then cold, then hot again. She feels very much alive next to him, strong and unyielding, her body as rigid as her words are soft and magical, cascading over him and through him, all at once.

"I can hardly wait to hold you / feel my arms around you," she sings plaintively, "how long I have waited / waited just to love you / now that I have found you…"

Her hands slide effortlessly over the keys, building the momentum of the song, drawing his attention once more. He gazes at her, the way her hair frames her face, the softness of her cheek, the line of her jaw. His eyes land on her mouth as she finishes the song, and he watches, fascinated, knowing this is the only time he'll ever see her speak, or hear her voice.

"Don't ever go," she pleads softly, the lyric tumbling over the final notes of the song. "Don't ever go…I love you so…"

She breathes her final word as her fingers draw to a halt, the last chord echoing through the tiny room. Her mouth closes and her eyes fall, coming to rest at a point straight ahead, and she looks as she did the moment he walked into the room.

James's heart is hammering in his chest as he stares at her. He becomes aware of the short, shallow way he's breathing, but he can't really control it, because the entirety of his attention is directed to her. _Does she understand the meaning of the words?_ he wonders wildly. _Or does she simply enjoy the music, the sound of her voice in harmony with the instrument?_ He knows she has thousands of songs in her personal library, show tunes and pop music and classical alike, so why would she choose _this_ one to play for him?

He remembers her mother's words, how Susan's specialist believes that it was her music that was the key to unlocking her spirit. He remembers her letters, how simple and childlike the construction of her sentences, of the sentiments, how she repeats the familiar opening and closing greetings that he's used for years.

Is it just repetition? Or can she understand – and maybe even _feel_ – emotion far more complex than she could ever express?

The questions swirl around his mind as he watches her unflinching, unchanging expression.

"Susan," he finally says, managing to find his voice, "that's a beautiful song." He hesitates before continuing, wondering if he can live without an answer to his next question. "Did you sing it just for me?"

Her right hand slips away from the piano keys, dropping to where his lay on his lap. His breath constricts for a moment, as his eyes move from her hand to her face, where still, there is no flicker of recognition.

"Do you understand the words?" he asks quietly. "Do you know what you've just told me?"

Her hand closes over his, her fingers gripping his with an unexpected force. Her touch is like fire, igniting the heat that burns through him at her nearness. He feels himself flushing, hard enough to stand his reddish gold locks on end, but there's something else there – a boldness he's never felt before in the presence of a girl.

He's so confused to feel it now, but he pushes past the cold, familiar insecurity. He laces his fingers through hers, clasping her hand as tightly as he dares – the hand that writes letters, that plays such beautiful, evocative music. Her music might be the key to opening her world, but this is the gateway, and suddenly he feels very privileged to hold it in his own.

"Susan," he says carefully, turning slightly where he sits, "can you look at me?"

His heart skips a beat when she shifts, her eyes rising to meet his. He reaches for her before his nerves can fail him, cupping his hand lightly over her cheek, his fingers trailing into her hair. He watches her closely, forcing himself to tame the eagerness that bubbles just below his surface. After a moment, she leans into the light caress, her expression softening as if she's never been touched this way before, as if she's unsure of the pleasantness of the sensation.

He smiles slightly, as if to encourage her. "Do you mind – " he stammers, another flush burnishing his cheeks, "do – can I kiss you?"

Slowly, slowly, her eyes fall closed, and she lifts her chin in invitation. He leans closer, brushing his mouth against hers, as gently and reverently as he can possibly kiss her. The grip on his hand tightens when he pulls away, so he kisses her again, startled but pleased when he feels her respond, the gentle pressure of her lips against his, and suddenly, he understands why he feels so attached to her, why he's read her letters over and over again, why he thinks of her so often, why he wanted to share his life with her in the first place.

He breaks away again, tracing the edge of her lower lip with this thumb as he does. When he looks into her eyes now, he sees the recognition he's craved for so long. She knows who he is – and how he feels about her.

Words can't express it, so he smiles instead.

The corners of her mouth curve up in response, a simple, expressive gesture that make him realize – eight years of one-sided conversations have been oh, so worth it.


	9. Daddy's Little Girl

Title: Daddy's Little Girl

Author: LuxKen27

Prompt: #040 – Claire Pike

Universe: Post-canon

Genre: Family

Rating: K+

Word Count: 1,281

Summary: As she prepares to leave the only home she's ever known, Claire Pike searches for the perfect family memento.

Author's note: Inspired by OzQueen's _Money_. This is my first try at writing the Pikes, so please forgive me if it's totally off the wall.

_Disclaimer:_The _Baby-sitters Club_ concept, storyline, and characters are © 1986 – 2000 Ann M. Martin/Scholastic Corporation. No money is being made from the creation of this material. No copyright infringement is intended.

.xxxxx.

Claire Pike never thought herself one for nostalgia, but she couldn't help the heavy feeling that settled in her chest as she gazed at the room she had once shared with her sister, Margo. Little about it had changed since their childhood: the walls were still covered with posters and messily-drawn artwork; the beds were still neatly made, with outrageously-colored comforters; twin bureaus and desks and mirrors still sat against opposite walls, each piece framed with old, dark oak. Margo's side was still neater than Claire's, but that wasn't hard to believe these days.

Margo, just like the rest of her older brothers and sisters, had moved out long ago.

And now, it was Claire's turn.

It was fast becoming another Pike family tradition, just like picnic lunches at Carle Playground, or listening to classical music on Thanksgiving. One by one, her siblings had trickled out of the house, off to chase new adventures – at college, in New York, across the ocean. Mallory had led the charge almost thirteen years ago, first moving to boarding school at Riverbend, then even further into the countryside for college. The triplets were next, scattering in different directions around the country. Dreamy Vanessa, practical Nicky, and dramatic Margo had all left as well, following their disparate dreams wherever they led.

Each time, Claire had been bundled into one of the station wagons with the rest of her family, squeezed between suitcases and boxes and Margo's disgusting Barf Bucket. They had driven to each town, each campus, each military post – all of the remaining kids and their parents, to solemnly see off each fresh high school graduate. At first, it had been a fun game for her, like an extra-short vacation tacked onto the end of summer. Each trip got progressively harder, however, as the number of cars – and passengers – dwindled. It had been especially hard for her to say goodbye to Margo, whom she had long considered her best friend in the world. It had felt so strange to return to the bedroom they'd shared for sixteen years, knowing her sister wouldn't be there anymore; it had taken weeks for her to learn how to fall asleep in an empty room.

Now, the room would truly be empty – in a few minutes, she, too, would be leaving it behind.

The corners of Claire's lips turned up in a smile as her eyes landed on a colorfully-framed picture resting on the corner of her bureau. Three girls grinned as they clutched each other's shoulders – one tall and willowy, with thick, wavy blonde hair and a peach-colored dress; another girl who was slightly shorter, darker, twin brown ponytails trailing over her shoulders and obscuring the label on her shirt; the third girl, shorter still, a thatch of wild red hair sticking up and streaked multicolored, wearing tie-dye and suspenders. There was a happy, conspiratorial look in the girls' eyes as they smiled for the camera, and the picture never failed to make Claire smile.

She tugged at a long, red ringlet of hair, glancing down to examine the end, dyed bright blue. Her hair had been every color of the rainbow at some point; it was her way of cheerfully rebelling, a remnant of her childhood silly-billy-goo-goo phase. The friends in the picture – blonde Suzi Barrett, brunette Patsy Kuhn – were far more conventionally pretty, so they certainly made for a strange-looking trio. To anyone who knew the girls, though, there was nothing strange about it – Claire, Suzi, and Patsy had been thick as thieves since the age of five, bonding in protest over being left off the Krashers championship softball team.

She picked up the picture of her friends and tucked it into her shoulder bag.

As sad as Claire was about the thought of leaving home, she was equally excited about her destination. She, Suzi, and Patsy were all going to the University of Connecticut, and had even managed to be placed together in the same freshman suite. She couldn't think of a better way to start college than with her best friends. It almost made up for the fact that it would only be her and her parents driving up to the campus; her brothers and sisters had long since scattered back to their own lives after an all-too-brief summer visit. All of them had some little piece of advice or word of wisdom to pass along to Claire – what to pack, what sorts of classes to avoid, where all the best bars were in Storrs. The suggestions were great, but she would've traded it all for a chance to have her whole family there when she embarked on the next chapter of her life.

"Claire!" her mother's voice called, drifting up the stairs. "How are you coming along up there?"

"I'm coming," she responded absently, chewing on her lower lip. _Just as soon as I find it…_

Somewhere in this room was the perfect reminder of her family, of her parents. Sure, she could take pictures of them (and she had plenty socked away in one of her suitcases), but she wanted something more tangible than that – something that would instantly remind her of this room, this house, her childhood memories of her brothers and sisters and parents. She began pulling open the drawers of her bureau, her search growing more frantic as she heard the heavy tread of her father's footsteps on the stairs.

He knocked on her bedroom door. "Claire, honey," he said gently, "it's time to go."

She whirled around, looking at him with wide eyes. "Okay, Daddy," she replied. "There's just one more thing I wanted to get."

Her father's eyes crinkled in the corners as he smiled. "It's not like you'll never be back," he teased her gently. "Do you have to have it right this moment?"

She nodded solemnly. "Just a few more minutes?"

He considered her thoughtfully. "Okay," he assented, leaning against the doorframe. "Can I give you a hand?"

"No," came the reply, from the depths in her closet. Claire stooped on her knees, pushing aside old shoes and discarded book bags. When she spotted a particularly large box with the word TOYS hastily scribbled across its side, she reached for it, pushing open its lid. When she gazed inside, she knew instantly that her quest was over. There, lying on top of the pile of old blocks and puzzles and plastic horses, was her perfect memento.

Reverently, she picked up the Skipper doll, the one her father had bought for her after he'd found a job following months of unemployment. Skipper's hair was thin from excessive brushing, the paint of her lipstick chipped away, but she was dressed in the very same outfit she'd come in. Claire smiled at the memory this doll conjured – of being roused from bed first thing in the morning, of being pressed against the car window as her father pulled into the parking lot at the toy store, of the sheer, absolute delight she had when she picked the pearly pink box off the shelf.

As she emerged from her closet, holding the Skipper doll tightly in one hand, Claire looked at her father and grinned. He stood tall in her doorway, blinking rapidly as recognition settled over his features. He pressed his glasses up the slope of his nose as she flitted over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

"I'm ready now, Daddy," she whispered.

Her father's arm settled across her shoulders, holding her close. "You have everything you need?" he murmured gruffly, brushing a hand through her hair.

She smiled up at him as she pulled away, hugging Skipper close. "I do now," she replied happily.


	10. Strategy

Title: Strategy

Author: LuxKen27

Prompt: #054 – Babysit

Universe: Early canon/crossover with _Kids Incorporated_

Genre: Friendship/Romance

Rating: K+

Warning: None

Word Count: 2470

Summary: Sam gets a little advice on dating from a new friend.

_Author's Note:_ Written for GloriaFan, for the 2011 Halloween "trick-or-treat" meme on LJ. No knowledge of the _Kids Inc_ canon is necessary to enjoy this piece – I've simply transplanted one of those characters into the BSC universe. Enjoy!

_Disclaimer:_The _Baby-sitters Club_ concept, storyline, and characters are © 1986 – 2000 Ann M. Martin/Scholastic Corporation. No money is being made from the creation of this material. No copyright infringement is intended.

The _Kids Incorporated_ concept, storyline, and characters are © 1984 – 1993 Thomas Lynch/Gary Biller/MGM Television/20th Century Fox Home Entertainment/Disney Channel. Any resemblance to any person currently living or deceased is unintended (aka, I am writing about the _characters_, not the _actors_ who portray them). No money is being made from the creation of this material. No copyright infringement is intended.

.xxxxx.

Sam Thomas sprinted across the lawn in front of the high school. "Hey!" he called in greeting, flagging down his new friend. "Sorry about that – last minute meeting of the Math Club."

Mickey Smith shrugged. "No problem," he replied, his expression amused as he watched Sam suck wind. "So, what do you want to do this afternoon?"

"I'm sorry," Sam heaved, "but I _totally_ forgot it was my day to watch my little brother." He gave his friend an apologetic smile. "Things have been a little crazy at my house lately."

"I definitely understand crazy," Mickey mused sardonically. His own house was still chaotic from their move, and that was one of the reasons why he liked spending his afternoons elsewhere. That, and he was lonely – he'd never realized just how much of his time the band had taken up until he didn't have it anymore. God, but he still missed his friends…

"You're welcome to come over," Sam offered, bringing Mickey out his morose thoughts. "We can shoot some hoops or something. David Michael's pretty fun, for a six-year-old." He glanced at his watch. "Ugh, but we have to go _now_ – whoever is watching him is supposed to get home _before_ him. Mom hates it if he has to wait – and believe me, David Michael's a champion whiner."

Before Mickey could respond, Sam grabbed his arm and dashed off. The two made pretty good time from Stoneybrook High School to the Thomas house on Bradford Court, though they were both out of breath as they came to a halt by the front door. Sam checked his watch again and frowned. "It's three thirty," he observed. "David Michael should be here already."

"I am," came the calm reply, startling Sam and Mickey. The two turned to see David Michael rounding the corner of the house from the backyard, licking a half-melted popsicle.

Sam dropped his backpack in surprise. "How did you get in?" he asked. "I thought you lost your key."

David Michael wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "I did," he said, sending a happy smile in his brother's direction. "Charlie's here – he let me in."

Sam looked completely confused. "Charlie's here?" he echoed. "But I thought he had football practice?"

David Michael shrugged, more interested in his popsicle than in who was supposed to be watching him for the day.

Just as Sam opened his mouth to question him further, Charlie jogged into the front yard.

"Hey, guys," he greeted, sending Sam and Mickey a friendly wave.

"Hey," Sam returned, furrowing his brow. "What are you doing here?"

Charlie shrugged, ruffling David Michael's hair. "Practice was canceled because Coach is sick. Ricky and Randy weren't home, so I just figured I'd hang out here."

"Hey!" David Michael cried, "does this mean you're _both_ baby-sitting for me?" His eyes lit up at the possibility of spending the afternoon with his older brothers. "Cool!"

The older boys exchanged a look over David Michael's head.

"Sure," Charlie finally relented, brushing his hand through his younger brother's hair once more.

"You remember Mickey, right?" Sam piped up, gesturing towards his friend. "Is it cool if he hangs out with us, too?"

David Michael squinted up and nodded shyly, sucking on his popsicle stick.

"Hey, I know!" Charlie cried. He clasped a hand on his little brother's shoulder. "How about we play a no-holds-barred world championship two-on-two basketball tournament?" He lowered himself to David Michael's eye level and gave him a conspiratorial look. "It can be you and me versus the pretty boys over there. Think we can take 'em?"

David Michael considered his brother for a long, serious moment, before nodding resolutely.

Charlie grinned. "All right!" he cheered, slapping a high-five with David Michael. He glanced down at his now-sticky palm. "Uh, how about we wash up before the big game?" he suggested.

"And find our uniforms!" David Michael added enthusiastically.

Sam laughed. "We'll put our stuff up and find the ball," he said, watching with no small amount of amusement as David Michael grabbed Charlie's hand and pulled him towards the backyard once more.

Mickey smiled as he watched the exchange. He didn't have any siblings himself, but he'd spent plenty of time trying to keep the Kid and Stacy in line and out of trouble during his time with Kids Inc. His good cheer continued as he followed Sam into the house – it was pretty small for a family of five, but had a great, vibrant, lived-in _feel_ that the Smiths were still trying to find. Their house felt cavernous by comparison, even though it wasn't all that much bigger.

"Hi guys!" boomed a voice, the door banging open almost as soon as Sam had closed it. Kristy pushed past them, dropping her books on the floor near the stairs as she made a beeline for the kitchen.

"Kristy!" Sam called, sounding annoyed. "You _know_ you're not supposed to – "

"Bye guys!" she cut in, reappearing with a bag of chips and rushing past them, throwing open the door once more. "Emergency meeting of the Baby-sitters Club! I'll be back later!"

Mickey lifted a brow. "The 'baby-sitters club'?" he echoed in confusion.

Sam shook his head, reaching into the hall closet for the family basketball. "It was Kristy's idea," he replied, "and now it's the center of her universe." He gave the ball a couple of test bounces. "She started it a couple of weeks ago with some other girls in her class. They meet a couple times a week and baby-sit for the neighborhood kids."

"Ingenious," Mickey mused.

Sam groaned. "Don't let Kristy hear you say that," he joked. "Believe me, her ego is big enough as it is!"

The two returned outside, where Charlie and David Michael were waiting not-so-patiently for them, with Mickey drawing the door closed behind himself as he exited the house. He turned, almost immediately knocking into Sam, who had stopped short, clutching the basketball between his hands.

"What's up?" Mickey asked, taking a side-step and following his friend's arrested line of vision. Four girls were huddled together on the front lawn across the street. _That must be the rest of the club_, he surmised. Not that this explained Sam's sudden interest in them, considering the rather dismissive tone he'd had only moments before when he was explaining it.

Charlie leaned against the railing, crossing his arms over his chest as he gave his brother a knowing look. "Sam's in love," he intoned with a teasing smile.

"I am not!" Sam scoffed, averting his eyes as a flush rose over his cheeks.

Mickey lifted a sardonic brow, studying the girls across the street a bit more carefully. "Oh?" he remarked. "With who?"

"_Nobody_," Sam exclaimed, marching past his brothers and into the front yard. "Can we just play already? Geez."

Mickey stayed put, sending a sidelong glance towards Charlie and David Michael, both of whom were still lingering near the front door. Charlie shrugged, content to keep his brother's secret, but David Michael looked ready to burst.

"It's Stacey!" he cried out, wriggling like a puppy. He pointed across the way. "See? The blond one!" He grinned, bouncing from foot to foot. "Sam likes Sta-cey, Sam likes Sta-cey – "

Charlie casually clapped his hand over his little brother's mouth, muffling the teasing sing-song as Sam stalked towards the driveway on the side of the house. Charlie made David Michael promise to stop teasing his brother as the two of them trailed after him, and Mickey followed at a slightly reduced pace, his eyes lingering across the street. The girls were sitting in a tightly knit circle, still deep in discussion, but he had a good look at the blonde nonetheless.

"She's pretty," Mickey observed, drawing to a halt under the basketball hoop near his friends. "Don't you guys think?"

"Sure," Charlie shrugged, "for a twelve-year-old."

"Actually, she's thirteen," Sam quickly corrected him, looking distracted. "Her birthday was last week."

"Oh?" Charlie tried not to laugh as he grabbed the basketball from his brother's hands and began to dribble it. "And how do you know that?"

Sam flushed. "I just _do_, okay?" he shot back, chasing his brothers as they played keep-away with the ball. "Quit kidding around – let's start before Mom comes home and blocks the driveway!"

"Actually…" Charlie's voice trailed off as he handed the ball to Sam, casting a thoughtful look in Mickey's direction. "She's from New York City, just like you, Mick."

Sam whirled around, his eyes wide as he stared at his new friend. "That's right," he choked out. "You're from New York, too, aren't you?"

Mickey lifted a brow. "Yeah…?" he trailed off. Sam made it sound like the city was on a different planet, instead of merely in a different state. "…so?"

Charlie grabbed the ball again, rousing David Michael into play as Sam crept ever closer to Mickey. He chewed on his lower lip as he shot another look in the girls' direction. "How do you impress a girl from New York?" he asked in a low voice, his tone somewhere between embarrassment and pleading.

"The…same way you impress girls from Connecticut?" Mickey guessed, unsure of what Sam was fishing for. "Just be yourself, man."

"He tried that already!" David Michael exclaimed gleefully as he rushed between them carrying the ball. "It didn't really work!"

Sam flushed an even deeper shade of red. "I'll get you for that!" he vowed playfully, chasing after his younger brother, who shrieked with sugar-high-aided delight.

Charlie slowed to a stop next to Mickey, and the two of them watched Sam and David Michael play. "I told him the same thing," Charlie confided after a moment. "He didn't believe me, either."

Mickey laughed. "He really likes this girl, doesn't he?"

Charlie simply smiled.

"C'mon, guys!" Sam called out. "Are you going to stand there, or are you going to play?"

"We're in!" Charlie returned, jogging over to where David Michael was standing. "What's the score?"

Mickey drew Sam to the side as David Michael animatedly filled his older brother in. "Listen, Sam, there's nothing to be embarrassed about," he told him. "I think she's cute, and that you should go for it!"

Sam looked pained. "I-I don't really know _how_," he confessed. "She's not like the other girls around here. She's very…uh, _mature_." He cast an anxious look at his friend. "Do you think you could give me some pointers?"

Mickey shrugged. "Sure," he said magnanimously. "Just let me see how you interact with her, and maybe I can steer you in the right direction."

"Cool," Sam nodded.

"C'mon, pretty boys!" Charlie teased. "Are you going to stand there, or are you going to play?"

Sam and Mickey joined them, and the four began to play in earnest, quickly finding themselves caught up in the lively two-on-two game. There was much shouting and laughing and teasing, though none of it girl- or crush-related. All of them were enjoying themselves, but David Michael was in absolute heaven, completely enthralled with his older brothers.

Mickey wasn't sure how long they'd been playing when he glanced over and noticed that the emergency meeting seemed to be breaking up. He maneuvered closer to Sam and bumped him in the shoulder. "Hey," he said, nodding towards the girls. "Now's your chance."

Sam swallowed hard, shooting a layup and looking relieved when the ball sailed through the net. "Time out, guys!" he huffed.

"Aww!" David Michael whined. "But we're tied 19-19! You can't stop now!"

"Every championship team gets a timeout," Mickey informed him with a smile. He brushed the sweat from his brow as he glanced over at Sam, who suddenly looked very pale and nervous. "We, uh, have to talk strategy."

He pulled Sam out of earshot of the others. "Chill out, man," he advised. "Just _talk_ to her, like a normal human being."

"Right," Sam nodded, struggling to catch his breath. "Normal." He tucked the basketball under his arm as he watched the girls stand up and brush the grass from their clothes. Mickey gave him a little push as the girls began to drift apart.

Sam didn't need another nudge. He strolled to the end of the driveway, waving at Stacey as she walked past him on the other side of the street. "Stacey!" he called. "Hey!"

She stopped, looking surprised but pleased when she realized who was trying to get her attention. She glanced back at her friends before looking up and down the street, making sure it was clear before she crossed. Mickey really got a good look at her then, and had to admit to himself she was even prettier at close range, with fluffy blonde hair and clear blue eyes. She could've been an older version of _his_ Stacy, in fact, a thought which startled him far more than it should have.

"Hi, Sam," Stacey returned eagerly, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she gazed up at him. "What's up?"

Sam shrugged. "Just playing a little basketball with my brothers," he replied, pulling the ball out and twirling it between his fingers.

Stacey smiled. "I'll bet David Michael is really enjoying that," she remarked. "I know he has a lot of fun whenever he can spend time with you."

"Not as much fun as when he's with _you_," Sam returned.

She blushed. "I've only baby-sat for him once," she reminded him, "and you were there! I think that's why he had such a good time…" She trailed off and averted her eyes; it wasn't hard for Mickey to guess what she was thinking: _I know that's why _I_ had such a good time_.

He smirked.

The two stood in silence for a moment, smiling at each other. "Stacey," Sam finally said, his voice a note softer than before, "I just wanted to say – you look really pretty today."

Stacey blushed. "Thanks, Sam," she replied, clutching her notebook to her chest.

"Hey!" David Michael called out impatiently. "When is your timeout going to be over?"

Sam rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "I guess that's my cue," he sighed, twirling the basketball again. "I'll see you around, yeah?"

"Yeah," Stacey returned breathlessly, giving him a little wave as he sprinted back up the driveway. She lingered for a moment as he caught up with Mickey, looking very reluctant to continue on her way to wherever she was going.

Mickey's attention shifted to Sam, who looked just as pale and nervous as he had five minutes before. "Oh, man, that was awkward," he moaned, handing the ball off to his friend so that he could bury his face in his hands. "She thinks I'm a total dweeb!"

Mickey laughed, clapping Sam's shoulder with his free hand. "Believe me, my friend," he said, granting him a knowing smile, "_nothing_ could be further from the truth."


	11. Close Encounters of the Awkward Kind

Title: Close Encounters of the Awkward Kind

Author: LuxKen27

Prompt: #081 – Twins

Fandom: _Baby-sitters Club/Kids Incorporated_ crossover

Universe: Mid-canon (both series)

Genre: Comedy

Rating: T

Warning: Language

Word Count: 1,525

Summary: "Well, they say everyone has a doppelganger somewhere on this planet. You have to admit, though – it's kinda weird to meet yours in the juniors department of Bloomie's."

_Author's Note:_ Written for isabelquinn, for the 2011 fandom_stocking holiday exchange on LJ. No knowledge of the _Kids Inc_ canon is necessary to enjoy this piece – I've simply transplanted those characters into the BSC universe. Enjoy! (Further author's notes can be found on my Dreamwidth and LiveJournal accounts, if anyone is curious as to how this cracktastic crossover came into being, LOL.)

**DISCLAIMER: **The _Baby-sitters Club_ concept, storyline, and characters are © 1986 – 2000 Ann M. Martin/Scholastic Corporation. No money is being made from the creation of this material. No copyright infringement is intended.

The _Kids Incorporated_ concept, storyline, and characters are © 1984 – 1993 Thomas Lynch/Gary Biller/MGM Television/20th Century Fox Home Entertainment/Disney Channel. Any resemblance to any person currently living or deceased is unintended (aka, I am writing about the _characters_, not the _actors_ who portray them). No money is being made from the creation of this material. No copyright infringement is intended.

.xxxxx.

"Ohmigosh!" Stacey McGill squealed, her eyes lighting up as she dashed across the aisle in the crowded juniors department of Bloomingdale's. "Look at this!"

Sam Thomas trailed after her, eyeing her skeptically as she began to paw through a pile of sweaters. "A black sweater?" he mused skeptically. "But don't you already have a black sweater? In fact – don't you have _my_ black sweater?"

"This is not _just_ a black sweater," she informed him witheringly, finally finding one in her size and holding it up, the sleeves fluttering out of their fold. "This is _the_ black sweater – the height of this year's fall fashion season!"

Sam caught one of the sleeves between his fingers and examined the fabric with a thoughtful look – but, try as he might, he didn't see what was so special about it. It looked like an ordinary run-of-the-mill sweater to him. "If you say so," he replied with a shrug.

"I can't believe I found one in my size," she said excitedly, paying no heed to his lack of enthusiasm. "I _have_ to try this on." She glanced around, looking for the nearest fitting room. How she could find anything in this crowd was beyond him – he'd never seen Bloomingdale's so packed.

_But_, he considered when she grabbed his hand and made a beeline across the department_, I shouldn't be surprised – yesterday _was_ Labor Day, after all_. If he'd learned anything from Stacey during their heretofore short relationship, it was that fashionistas kept a pretty strict calendar – one that revolved around post-holiday sales.

"This will only take a second, I promise," she said, breaking into his bemused reverie. She turned to him, giving him a winning smile, the sort he was incapable of resisting. "Would you hold my purse? I'll be right back." She shoved her handbag into his hands before he could protest and disappeared into the fitting rooms.

Sam stared after her, feeling a flush of embarrassment rising up the back of his neck as her purse dangled from his fingertips. _Well, this is awkward_, he considered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he glanced around the mostly deserted space. Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if he was the only one there, but alas – no such luck. Another guy was lounging nearby, sitting on the corner of one of the displays with his nose buried in a book. Sam studied him for a long moment, trying to decide if it would be more awkward to just stand there in silence, or to attempt pleasant conversation.

"This must be your first time," the stranger piped up, nearly startling Sam out of his skin.

"Huh?" he managed in response, checking the immediate urge to slap himself in the face. _Smooth, Sam_, he admonished himself silently. _Real smooth._

The guy looked up from his book, offering Sam a friendly smile. "Don't worry," he assured him, nodding towards Sam's hands. "Stick with it long enough, and you'll be inducted into the Purse Protectors Society."

"Are you a member?" Sam asked wryly. "Or simply a disinterested observer?"

The guy laughed. "Member since '88," he replied jovially, tucking his book into his messenger's bag. "Hi, I'm Ryan," he continued, extending his hand.

"Sam," Sam replied, taking his hand and giving it a firm shake. "Purse watching novice."

Ryan smiled. "Hey, we all have to start somewhere, right?" he mused with a shrug. "You'll figure out a system soon enough."

"What's yours?" Sam asked, looking at him curiously. "Convincing your girlfriend to lug around a messenger's bag?"

Ryan laughed. "I wish," he intoned, running his fingers under the strap that crossed his chest. "Nope, this is mine – it's big enough to hold her purse _and_ a couple of books, just in case she wants to try on half the store." He grinned as Sam sank down beside him, burying his face in his hands. "Hey, man, cheer up! There _are_ some perks to this, you know."

Sam glanced up. "Like…?"

"Bikini season," Ryan replied with a knowing look.

Sam's eyes widened at the thought. "Damn," he sighed, "why can't it be July?"

"Just think of it as something to look forward to," Ryan chuckled.

The two lapsed into companionable silence as Sam continued to imagine how well Stacey could fill out a bikini. He'd always thought she was cute, but he'd never really had the opportunity to see her in a swimsuit. Even at Shadow Lake over the summer – any time he'd announce his presence by wolf-whistling at her, she'd just get huffy and go change.

_God, I was an idiot_, he thought to himself.

And yet, here he was – sitting in the juniors department of Bloomingdale's with her purse in his hands not even three months later. Obviously, he'd done _something_ right, so maybe he should try to exercise a little patience.

And figure out a system.

Just as he was mulling that over, two girls emerged from the fitting rooms at nearly the same time. Sam looked up, noticing from the corner of his eye that Ryan did the same, but most of his attention was focused on his girlfriend. Now that she was wearing the sweater, he understood why it was so special. At tunic length, the hem was long enough to fall over the curve of her hips. She'd belted it over the black leggings she'd worn into the store, the silver metallic finish of the belt bringing out the shimmery quality of the black fabric. Paired with her honey-blonde hair and blue eyes, she certainly cut a striking figure.

"You look _great_, Stace!" Sam and Ryan chorused in unison – only to look at each other in surprise.

"You know my girlfriend?" Sam asked with a frown.

Ryan lifted a brow. "I was just about to ask you the same thing," he replied, his tone noticeably cooler than before.

Sam looked back at Stacey, his confusion growing when he saw her reflection in the mirror – she, too, looked upset, staring at the girl beside her with a fierce frown. When Sam's gaze slid to the other girl, he nearly fell out of his seat.

"Holy shit," he murmured under his breath, glancing from one girl to the next.

"They could be twins," Ryan added, sounded similarly shocked.

For a moment, the four were eerily silent, each staring at the girls' reflection in the mirror. They were the same height, had the same wavy blonde hair, shared ocean blue eyes – and were dressed in almost identical outfits. The other girl's belt was gold, and she was wearing dark denim jeans, but those differences were so small they weren't noticeable at first glance.

The other girl cleared her throat. "So," she said awkwardly, "your name is Stacy too?"

Stacey nodded, narrowing her eyes slightly.

"Weird," Stacy observed. "How do you spell it?"

"S-T-A-C-E-Y," Stacey supplied. "You?"

"No 'e'," Stacy replied.

"Oh." Stacey was quiet for a long moment, her eyes drifting back to her own reflection. "You look good in that sweater. I think it suits you."

"Thanks," Stacy responded, gazing at herself critically in the mirror as she tugged on the hem. "You look pretty good yourself."

Stacey acknowledged the compliment with a nod, taking a step away from the mirror. She tossed her hair over her shoulder as she strode back into the fitting rooms. Stacy lingered at the mirror for another moment before leaving as well, pointedly returning to the fitting rooms through a different entrance.

Sam slid a glance at Ryan, meeting his mystified expression with one of his own.

"What are the odds?" Sam mused, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Ryan shrugged. "Well, they say everyone has a doppelganger somewhere on this planet," he replied. "You have to admit, though – it's kinda weird to meet yours in the juniors department of Bloomie's."

Sam was suddenly struck with a thought as he clutched the strap of Stacey's bag. "What does her purse look like?" he asked curiously, holding up the black one that he held in his hands.

Ryan's eyes widened as he pulled his messenger's bag into his lap, throwing open the flap and digging inside. When he emerged with a knit purple crossbody, he and Sam breathed twin sighs of relief.

"That was close," Sam laughed.

"It would've been way too far into the uncanny valley," Ryan agreed.

Stacey appeared just then, dressed in her own clothes. She schooled her features into a pleasant expression as she approached the guys, but when she moved close enough to take custody of her purse from Sam, he noticed the tightness of her smile. With one last, silent wave to Ryan, he stood up and followed her, reaching for her hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"No sweater?" he queried when he realized she was heading for the escalator empty-handed.

"No," she replied with a shrug. "She really did look better in it." She stepped onto the escalator, turning slightly so that she could face him. "But that's okay," she assured him, her expression relaxing as they moved further and further away from the juniors department. "I have better hair."


	12. Confidant

Title: Confidant

Author: LuxKen27

Prompt: #028 – Mimi

Fandom: The _Baby-sitters Club_

Universe: Early canon (#26 _Claudia and the Sad Goodbye_)

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Rating: T

Warning: mentions of character death

Word Count: 1,525

Summary: Janine Kishi finds an unexpected confidant in her struggle to deal with Mimi's death.

_Author's Note:_ Written for baseballchica03, for the 2011 fandom_stocking holiday exchange on LJ.

**DISCLAIMER: **The _Baby-sitters Club_ concept, storyline, and characters are © 1986 – 2000 Ann M. Martin/Scholastic Corporation. No money is being made from the creation of this material. No copyright infringement is intended.

.xxxxx.

Janine Kishi stood in the shadows of the living room, watching as friends and neighbors greeted her family for the second (or third) time that day. It was only the middle of the afternoon, but already, she felt exhausted. It had been hard enough to sit through the burial service, and then the funeral; she wasn't sure she could handle lingering around at the reception for very long.

She knew how rude it would've been to skip it, though. Every person who filed into the house that afternoon had known and loved Mimi. They all had nice memories to share, and a seemingly desperate need to share them, now that the heaviness and formality of the funeral had passed. The atmosphere that permeated the living room was light and relaxed and welcoming; people were smiling and laughing and chatting happily – with her parents, with her aunt and uncle, with each other.

Janine sank back into the corner. It all felt so strange to her, to stand there and listen as others reminisced about her grandmother – to see her mother smiling in the midst of her guests – to watch Russ and Peaches laugh at an old familiar story. She felt a stab of jealousy as she watched Claudia and her friends disappear into the den with a platter of food, closing the door behind themselves.

Everyone had someone to be with, it seemed – everyone but her.

She lurked and waited and watched, inching closer and closer to the entrance to the room. With one final, lingering glance, she escaped, moving purposefully through the foyer and nearly bursting out of the front door. She inhaled sharply as she descended the stairs, walking out into the yard and feeling the afternoon sun warm her shoulders. Her tension began to dissipate as she moved away from the house, away from the family and friends and neighbors who had crowded inside, eager to offer sympathy and support.

It was all too much for her.

She'd never felt more alone in her life.

She tucked her hands into the pockets of her blazer, pulling it closed around herself as she wandered around to the back of the house. It was hard for her not to feel guilty now, for feeling annoyed and afraid by the constant upheaval that Mimi had caused during the last few weeks of her life. Janine liked routine – thrived on it, in fact – but the last month had been more chaotic than sound. Those back and forth trips to the hospital – watching her grandmother writhe in pain – the worried looks her parents exchanged when they thought no one was looking – it all wore on her.

She didn't like to see Mimi like this – like an old, frail, confused and dying woman. She didn't _want_ to see it, so she escaped, finding comfort and regularity in her world of logic and science. She _couldn't_ deal with it then, but she _had_ to deal with it now.

Because now, Mimi was gone.

She was dead.

And now that Janine was free to remember her however she wished, all she could think about were those final few agonizing days.

"Janine?"

The hesitant voice startled Janine from her thoughts. She turned swiftly, feeling her spine stiffen when she realized who had called out to her. Charlie Thomas stood a few steps away, looking at her uncertainly. Though others had changed between the funeral and the reception, he was still dressed in his dark suit and tie. _Of course_, she thought to herself as her eyes swept over him. _He probably just stayed on this side of town._

"Are you okay?" he asked softly, closing the gap between them.

She turned away, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, chewing on her lower lip as she searched for a suitable answer to his question. They weren't friends; she wasn't sure that she felt comfortable sharing her feelings with him.

"Kristy told me about the BSC meeting," he continued on after a moment. "About how you were there, too, because you didn't want to be alone." There was another pause. "I've been thinking about you ever since."

Janine turned to face him once more, her eyes narrowing with curiosity. "You have?" she choked out, unable to hide the blatant surprise in her voice.

He nodded somberly. "I know what it's like to abruptly lose someone you love," he replied. "And I can't imagine trying to deal with it all alone." Tentatively, he reached for her, laying his arm lightly around her shoulders. "So if you want someone to talk to, I'm here for you, Janine."

She nodded wordlessly, swallowing hard past the lump that had risen in the back of her throat. Her mind was still reeling over the idea that _anyone_ would spare such concern for her, much less someone like Charlie Thomas. He was a popular, easy-going, well-liked jock, and his kind rarely mixed with hers. Of course, she considered, the _reason_ he was so well-liked was because he was friendly to everyone, from the baddest badass to the lowliest outcast. She knew his offer to be sincere, based on that alone, but she couldn't help the warmth that spread across her torso as she stood there with his arm draped across her shoulders. Perhaps a confidant was just what she needed right then, especially given her family's tendency to push her away in times like these.

"Is it wrong to feel guilty?" she mused aloud, tightening the brace of her arms across her chest.

He considered her question thoughtfully. "How do you mean?" he queried, shifting his weight so that he could look at her.

She touched one of her earrings, toying with the diamond stud. "I was never close to her," she confessed, "not like Claudia. Mimi attempted to engage me so many times – to show me how to make her special tea, to try to teach me how to knit – but I was never interested in those things. And then, when she became sick…" She averted her gaze, feeling tears prickling behind her eyes. "I didn't know how to deal with it. I loved her, but I didn't know how to _help_ her."

"That's understandable, I think," Charlie murmured, rubbing her shoulder in a soothing caress.

Tears trickled from the corners of Janine's eyes. "I couldn't bear to see her so sick and frail," she confessed softly, her breath hitching in her chest. "I was at home, the last time she collapsed – but I was avoiding her. She wandered down to Claudia's art class for company, and – " Her throat closed over a sob as she covered her face with both hands. "– I never got to say goodbye."

Charlie folded her into his arms, resting her head against his shoulder, his embrace warm and secure. His gentle response only made her cry harder – who was she to be worthy of his compassion, especially when the guilt she felt was of her own making?

"It's all my fault," she said haltingly, between sobs. "If I hadn't been so selfish – if I only had put her needs first – "

"Janine," he interrupted delicately, grasping her shoulders, "you're a human being. You _have flaws_, believe it or not." He offered a small smile. "Mimi knew that. She could understand your fear."

"She didn't understand much of anything, near the end," Janine sniffled.

"She was never the same after the stroke she had last summer," he reminded her. "But that doesn't mean that she loved you any less, or thought that _you_ loved _her_ any less."

Janine felt her sobs beginning to subside. "I never had the chance to say goodbye, or tell her what she meant to me," she said softly. "She talked to Claudia the night before she died. She was always so proud of Claudia…"

Charlie hugged her close again. "She was proud of you, too, Janine," he replied resolutely. "I'm sure, if she'd had her wish, she would've spoken to _all_ of you, one last time."

Janine simply nodded before resting her head on his shoulder again. After a moment of contemplation, she slowly circled her arms around his waist, bringing him close and hugging him back. She liked the way he felt against her, so warm and solid and strong – and she liked the way he made her feel: comfortable, safe, and secure.

"Feeling better?" he asked softly after a long moment.

She let him go. "Quite," she murmured, reaching up to wipe away the tracks of her tears. A flush rose up the back of her neck; she couldn't quite bring her gaze to meet his, so she looked at his shoulder instead. "I apologize for ruining your jacket," she added after a moment.

He shrugged, brushing the damp fabric at his shoulder. "No big deal," he assured her with a smile. "Just think of it this way – you'll always have a shoulder to cry on, if you need it."

She managed a small smile. "Thank you, Charlie," she said, feeling a wave of warmth cascade over her.

He reached for her hand, giving it a light squeeze. "Any time, Janine," he replied. "Any time."


	13. Sussudio

Title: Sussudio

Author: LuxKen27

Prompt: #018 – Sharon Schafer

Fandom: The _Baby-sitters Club_

Universe: Early canon (#4 _Mary Anne Saves the Day_)

Genre: Romance

Rating: K+

Warning: None

Word Count: 1,866

Summary: Moving back to Stoneybrook is hard, but Sharon discovers that there are perks to returning to her hometown.

_Author's Note:_ Written for ozqueen, for the 2011 fandom_stocking holiday exchange on LJ.

**DISCLAIMER: **The _Baby-sitters Club_ concept, storyline, and characters are © 1986 – 2000 Ann M. Martin/Scholastic Corporation. No money is being made from the creation of this material. No copyright infringement is intended.

.xxxxx.

"Mom? Could you give me a ride to the party?"

"Hmm?" Sharon mumbled, absently poking through the box labeled SPORTS EQUIPMENT. She tried not to make it too obvious that she was looking for something, but she couldn't help it – ever since finding that photo album from high school, she'd had a sudden urge to dig up all of her memories of Stoneybrook.

She had come back of her own volition, but it had been tough. She felt like a failure: for her marriage breaking up, for running home to her parents like a little girl in search of solace. As soon as the ink on her divorce papers was dry, she'd packed up her kids and left, with only a destination in mind. She didn't have a job; if her parents hadn't scouted out the farmhouse before their arrival, she and her kids wouldn't have even had a place to _live_.

Coming back like this had been hard enough –she wasn't sure she could've endured the indignity of moving back in with her parents.

But, somehow, things were settling into place. She'd found a job fairly quickly. Dawn and Jeff were in school, and both had made friends already. Slowly but surely, the multitude of moving boxes were being unpacked. Stoneybrook was beginning to feel like home again.

"Mom? Mom!"

Sharon startled from her reverie, blinking rapidly when she realized Dawn was standing in front of her. "I'm sorry, honey," she apologized sheepishly. "What were you saying?"

Dawn rolled her eyes, but a smile crept along the contours of her mouth. "I was asking if you could give me a ride to the party this afternoon," she repeated in an overly patient tone. "You know, on your way to pick up Jeff?"

"Jeff!" Sharon breathed, abruptly dropping the eggbeater she was holding back into the box. She thought frantically. "He's at – ?"

"Hockey practice," Dawn supplied.

"Yes," Sharon murmured, "that's right. Hockey practice." She fumbled with one of her earrings as she moved away from the counter, heading for the big calendar Dawn had posted next to the kitchen door. (Her daughter was so organized that sometimes Sharon had a hard time believing they were related.) She scanned the boxes with one finger, finally finding the date, with her son's childish scrawl noting his practice, and Dawn's neat print right under it: _Party at Mary Anne's, 5 –8 pm._

Sharon's heart skipped a beat. "Your party is at Mary Anne's?" she asked lightly, turning to face Dawn once more.

She nodded happily. "Yeah," she replied. "She wants me to meet the other girls in the Baby-sitters Club." She tucked her hands into her back pockets. "Maybe they'll ask me to join."

Sharon smiled. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Dawn was very headstrong and independent, but she knew her daughter well enough to know she'd like to have more than one close friend. She'd had four or five, back in California.

Dawn shrugged nonchalantly, but her excited expression gave her away. She glanced at her watch. "Wow, we need to leave _right now_," she exclaimed. "I don't want to be late!"

Before Sharon could respond, Dawn was tugging her outside towards the car. She barely had time to stop and lock the door (she congratulated herself on remembering to do that, since she had a terrible habit of leaving things unlocked all the time) before Dawn's excitement got the best of her. She slid into the car and buckled her seatbeat while Dawn fiddled with the radio; when she backed out of the driveway, she asked Dawn for directions to Mary Anne's.

She had to ask twice, because her mind was half-set on driving across town to where he used to live, a route she'd long ago memorized. She'd never admit it to anyone, but after she found the old prom picture, and Dawn casually mentioned that Richie was still living in Stoneybrook, she'd swung by the old Spier residence on her way home from work one evening. She knew in an instant that the Spiers no longer lived there; the crumbling but cozy house of her memories had been remodeled, with new butter-colored siding and dark green shutters.

"Mom, you're going to miss the turn!" Dawn yelped, jarring Sharon back to the present. The tires squealed as she took a sharp right; from then on, Sharon vowed concentrated on the road – this was a new car, and she couldn't afford to have another accident on her record.

They made it to the Spiers' residence on Bradford Court without further incident. Dawn unbuckled her seat beat and glanced back at her mother. "Why don't you walk me to the door?" she suggested casually. "Maybe Mary Anne's father is home."

"Okay," Sharon managed, flipping down her visor and giving herself a quick look in the mirror. _Good_, she thought, surveying her reflection: her earrings matched, she didn't have any lipstick on her teeth, and her hair looked okay – nothing a bit of finger-combing couldn't fix. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Dawn's amused expression, but decided to ignore it.

It wasn't everyday that a woman ran into her high school sweetheart, after all.

She stepped gingerly out of the car, following Dawn up the front steps of the house and waiting as she rang the doorbell. Her heart began to thud heavily in her chest as she contemplated the front door. It was a _nice_ door, she considered, fairly nondescript, painted a neutral shade of brown. Richie had always been practical, never one for ostentatious decoration – so yes, this fit him…or at least, the memory she had of him.

The door swung open with a whoosh of warm air, the frame almost immediately filled by a tall, thin man.

"Hi, Mr. Spier!" Dawn greeted him with a smile. "Can I come in?"

It was so strange to hear her Richie being addressed by his father's name.

It was even _stranger_ to hear him talking to her daughter.

The daughter she'd had with another man.

"Dawn," he managed, sweeping his eyes from the preteen to her mother. "Of course – please, come in. Mary Anne is in the kitchen," he added, stepping aside to allow her entrance.

Sharon took the opportunity to study him. He was still tall and thin, like he had been when they were teenagers, but age had been quite kind to him. A soft thatch of brown hair replaced the crew cut of her memory; wire-framed glasses now sat upon his nose, instead of the thick tortoise-shells of his youth. He was no longer rail thin, she noted with a flush, covertly admiring the way he filled out his three-piece suit. When he turned to face her again, he smiled, the lines of his face disappearing, revealing the soft, youthful expression that she remembered – and loved – so well.

When her eyes met his, she was instantly mesmerized, gazing into the chocolate-colored depths. For a single, unbroken moment of time, they simply stared at each other, remembering the old and taking in the new.

"Dad," a new voice piped up, "this is Mrs. Schafer, Dawn's mother. Mrs. Schafer, this is my dad, Mr. Spier."

_No_, Sharon thought dazedly as she stared at Richard, _Mr. Spier was your guff old father_._ You…you are…_

"I think you two know each other," Mary Anne added after a moment.

Richard blinked first. "Yes," he murmured, "yes, of course we do." His eyes swept over her frame. "Sharon, it's wonderful to see you again," he added warmly. "It's been years."

Sharon flushed with pleasure under his appreciative gaze. "It's good to see you, too, Richie," she replied, unable to quite disguise the dreamy quality of her voice.

Richard smiled again. "Please, come in," he invited, taking a step back and gesturing inside.

Agreement bubbled up within her, but before she could accept his invitation, she spotted Dawn in the corner of her eye. "I'd love to," she finally said, "but I can't stay. I have to pick up my son from hockey practice."

"Ah," Richard nodded, his hand falling back to his side. He shifted his weight, leaning against the door, looking anything other than like he was ready to say goodbye to her.

Sharon smiled. She wasn't ready to say goodbye to him, either.

"Dawn," Mary Anne suddenly said, "there's a huge mess in the kitchen. Come help me clean it up."

"Oh, sure," Dawn replied hastily, quickly following Mary Anne down the hall and into the kitchen.

Richard relaxed incrementally as the girls left, offering Sharon another smile before speaking again. "I'm glad you're back in Stoneybrook," he said.

"I'm glad our daughters became friends," Sharon replied cheekily, feeling her palms grow clammy as she clutched the strap of her purse. She felt like a schoolgirl with a crush, dancing around a conversation with the fleeting hope that the object of her affection would notice her and ask her out. It was a silly way to feel – she was a grown woman, after all, old enough to have her own school-aged children – but she couldn't help herself. Being in Richard's presence again made her feel light and giddy, all the innocence of youth rushing back to her.

She knew better than to expect more than pleasant conversation, though – it had taken him nearly a year to work up the nerve to ask simply her to study with him when they were in high school. He was methodical, yes, but he was also adorably shy.

Well, the Richie Spier of her youth had been, at least.

"Would you like to have dinner sometime?" Richard blurted out, his cheeks coloring slightly.

Sharon's heart skipped a beat. "I'd love to," she answered, perhaps a bit too quickly (and eagerly). "When?"

Richard looked just as surprised as she felt. "When?" he echoed nervously. "Well – how about tomorrow night?"

Sharon grinned. "Wonderful," she breathed, unable – and, quite frankly, unwilling – to hide her excitement at the idea. "It'll be really nice to catch up with you."

"Great," Richard said, his expression a mixture of happiness and boyish relief. "I'll call you tomorrow, to work out the details."

"Wonderful," she said again. She glanced down at her watch. "Well, I need to get going if I'm to pick up Jeff," she apologized. "I don't want him to wonder where I am."

"Of course," Richard nodded, standing tall once more and taking another step back into the house. "Well. I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

"See you tomorrow," Sharon echoed with a smile. She turned away as he began to close the door, and was startled when he suddenly called out to her again.

"Oh, and Sharon?" he said, capturing her attention once more. She half-turned, gazing at him over her shoulder. "I'll drop Dawn off tonight – no need for you to make another trip."

She smiled at him and, on impulse, turned back, reaching for his hand and giving it a squeeze. "Thank you, Richie," she replied warmly. "That's very kind of you."

"My pleasure," he murmured, his hand lingering in hers for a long moment before he pulled away.

_No_, she thought as she turned back towards her car, _the pleasure is all mine._


	14. New Parents

Title: New Parents

Author: LuxKen27

Prompt: #070 – Parents

Universe: Pre-canon

Genre: Family

Rating: K+

Warning: None

Word Count: 1,255

Summary: Richard had a lot to learn about being a father, but he already knew one thing for certain: his daughter was beautiful, because she looked just like his beautiful wife.

_Author's Note:_ Written for ozqueen, for the 2012 fandom_stocking holiday exchange on DW.

**DISCLAIMER: **The _Baby-sitters Club_ concept, storyline, and characters are © 1986 – 2000 Ann M. Martin/Scholastic Corporation. No money is being made from the creation of this material. No copyright infringement is intended.

Richard smiled softly as he gazed down at his newborn daughter, tucked under a soft yellow blanket in her bassinet. He traced his fingertips across her tiny brow, marveling for the hundredth time at the velvety smoothness of her skin and the delicate wisps of her downy hair. She had chestnut brown hair, like Alma's; when he'd made mention of it to others, they'd teased him, telling him that all babies were born with dark hair, and that it wasn't an indication of what color it would be as she grew up.

He'd shrugged sheepishly, sharing a warm, knowing glance with his wife, letting the gentle barbs roll off his back. He had a lot to learn about being a father, but he already knew one thing for certain: his daughter was beautiful, because she looked just like his beautiful wife.

"Richard," chided a soft voice from behind, "you're going to be late for work."

He smiled as he felt his wife's hand curving into the crook of his elbow. "I know," he replied softly, capturing Mary Anne's tiny hand with his forefinger. "I just can't seem to leave her. Or you," he added, his gaze sweeping down to his side.

Alma shrugged, but smiled, curling closer to him. "She'll be here when you get home," she teased. "We both will."

Richard turned, gathering his wife in his arms, resting his head atop hers. _That won't stop me from worrying_, he thought, though he didn't give his concerns voice. The pregnancy had been unexpectedly difficult for his petite, thin-framed wife; she'd spent the last month of it on strict bedrest, with daily visits from a nurse, who'd followed her vital signs quite closely – and with grave concern. Everyone had sent up an extra prayer the night she went into labor; thirty-six hours later, their baby had arrived, just as hale and healthy and whole as her mother, who had delivered with no complications.

"You worry too much," Alma whispered, burrowing into him, bringing him back to the present.

He sighed, tightening the brace of his arms around her. "You give me good reasons to," he murmured. "Did you get any sleep at all last night?"

"No," she admitted, "but I think that's part of having a baby, darling. I won't sleep through the night until she does."

He brushed her hair from her brow, frowning slightly when he noticed it was slick with sweat. "You should wake me," he urged. "I don't mind helping you."

She laughed. "There isn't much you can help me with when Mary Anne wakes up hungry," she joked.

"Well, now," he mused, drawing his hand across her shoulders, caressing the back of her neck, "I don't know about that." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "I could keep you company."

"Or you could _sleep_," she returned, spearing him with a knowing look. "After all, you're the one who's working now." She shivered, drawing away from him, clasping her arms around herself. "What a pair we make," she observed. "You, my debonair lawyer husband in your three-piece suit, with your leather briefcase…and me, in my robe and slippers, the frumpy old hausfrau."

"You're neither frumpy, nor old," he corrected her archly, furrowing his brow as he touched the side of her face. Her skin felt flushed and hot. "Are you feeling okay?"

"I _am_ a little tired," she admitted, pressing the backs of her hands to her cheeks, and then her forehead. She caught his concerned look. "But I'm _not_ sick! For goodness sake, Richard, do you really think I'd be around Mary Anne if I were?!"

Her words were sharp, her tone hurt, and though his concern had not lessened, he decided not to pursue this particular line of inquiry. He hadn't meant to insult her, or somehow insinuate that she couldn't care for their baby. He was just worried about her – and that, he couldn't help.

His apprehension must've been writ large across his expression, for Alma's eyes softened as she gazed at him. "I'm sorry," she apologized, "I didn't mean to snap at you. I know how much of a worrywart you are." She leaned into him again, resting her head on his shoulder. "And I worry, too," she confessed. "Sometimes it feels completely overwhelming. I'm so tired, but I can barely sleep. Sometimes it takes a couple of tries to lift her out of her bassinet, and it's so distressing because she's crying for me the whole time." She exhaled sharply. "Sometimes, when that happens, my heart races so fast I'm afraid it'll burst right out of my chest."

Richard could feel his own heart thumping heavily at that moment, his anxiety only growing worse by the second. "Maybe you should make an appointment to see your doctor," he suggested slowly. "Just to be safe. Your pregnancy was so difficult at the end…"

She shook her head. "No," she sighed. "I think – I think I'm just nervous about being a mother. I don't want to do anything wrong."

He hugged her close. "You haven't," he assured her. "And you won't. Mary Anne is perfectly healthy, and happy." He spared a glance at his daughter, who was beginning to stir. "And beautiful, just like her mother."

"Fathers always say things like that," Alma mused wryly, breaking away from him as Mary Anne began to whimper.

"But in your case, it's true," Richard replied with a smile, watching her very carefully as she moved to pick up their daughter. She leaned into the bassinet, sliding her arms around their baby, but paused for a brief moment, as if gathering her strength. "Are you sure you don't want me to stay home with you today?"

"I'm sure," she insisted, picking up their daughter in one fluid, graceful motion. She pushed aside her robe as Mary Anne began to root against her chest with her tiny hands, and settled her against her breast. "Rioko and Mimi are across the street if I need anything."

"If you're sure," he said uncertainly, reaching for his briefcase, which he'd laid on the changing table just inside the door.

Alma looked up at him and smiled, and for a brief moment, she looked as she always had to him, happy and proud and breathtakingly lovely. "I'm sure," she assured him. "Just like I'm sure you need to get going if you want to keep this job!"

"All right," he relented, dropping a kiss to her brow. "Call me if you need anything."

"I will," she promised, tracing her fingers along the line of his jaw. She pulled him close again, impulsively pressing her lips to his. "Have a good day, darling."

"You, too," he breathed, wishing it was already five o'clock and that he was home for the evening. It was getting harder and harder to leave his girls, still wishing he could spend every minute of the day with them, but he'd only received two weeks leave for the birth – and only because Alma was in such a bad way.

He was reluctant to leave, but eventually did, stepping out into the crisp October morning air. _Maybe I am making too much of this_, he thought to himself as he unlocked his car. _Maybe everything she's going through really can be explained by new motherhood._ He chewed on his lower lip as he eased into the driver's seat, his eyes lingering in the rearview mirror for a long moment.

_Maybe it would be worth it to have a chat with Rioko and Mimi…_


End file.
